


Beyond Recall

by elwinglyre, MrBotanyB



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU Sherlock new meeting, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Amnesiac Sherlock Holmes, Apocalypse, But only after a long, Case Fic, Did we mention this is a First Time?, Dystopia, Explicit...eventually!, First Time, Friends to Lovers, From John to Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Memory Loss, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, burn - Freeform, slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-18
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-06-12 11:18:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 110,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15338718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrBotanyB/pseuds/MrBotanyB
Summary: Dropped into Cardiff on a mission he doesn’t remember, everyday he wakes to a past he doesn’t recall in a world torn apart by pandemic. William (Sherlock Holmes) finds purpose when John Watson finds him. For Watson, this man is a mysterious thief with the uncanny ability to see into people. But there’s something more to this man, and Doctor Watson helps William find the answers to his “magical” deductions. Is he a mad man? A serial killer? Or just damn clever? And what’s his connection to the epidemic that wiped out most of the world?Limited third-person POV that alternates chapter by chapter between John and Sherlock.





	1. Prologue and Chapter ONE

 

 **PROLOGUE** **(if you're already read the prologue, please scroll down to Chapter One)  
**

“That’s him!” She yells like she’s calling for a crash cart.

John, to his credit, does not drop the egg he’s holding between finger and thumb, or the open carton in his other hand. His heartbeat thrums in his ears as his head flies up and follows Molly’s finger pointing to the front near the cashier. That’s him, indeed. The thief. The imposter. The snake.

He’s a lean, striking figure. He stands tall, back straight, arms moving with aristocratic elegance and head up, chin held proud. He’s wearing a long trench coat over blue scrubs. Molly’s still pointing at the man as he glances back their way. John can’t define the color. Light and dark.

“Here, take these.” Mike grabs to catch the carton and egg thrust his way as John strides forward, cane clicking on the tile floor of the Tesco. The stranger takes a step back. The cashier looks nervous. John stops for a moment, eyes still locked with the stranger's. There's a pssh sound at the entrance, then the man spins around and rushes out the automatic doors just before they shut again, coat billowing behind like superman’s cape.

John curses and stumbles out the exit into the rain to see the mad bastard already at the intersection. Someone is yelling something after him as he takes off following. Whatever they're saying is not important. What is important is that after weeks of trying to catch whoever's been nipping away at the hospital supplies, snatching cash from their lockers, making them all feel helpless one more goddamn time as if the horrors of the last two years didn't do that enough, John can finally do something about it. Best of all, he doesn’t have to bloody think. Honestly, Molly's chance recognition is a gift from above. It's probably his best trip to Tesco in years. John’s calves burn and his heart pumps. It’s glorious.

That’s why while rushing down a narrow alley, dodging rubbish bins and boxes, and slipping on the wet pavement, John begins to admire the wanker. The man runs like a fucking gazelle. Just as Molly described him, he’s an oddly handsome tosser: too sharp cheekbones, shiny curls all wild and wet with rain and completely unruly.

As John rights himself racing around a skip, he changes his mind: the man isn’t a gazelle— he’s a spider monkey. The man leaps up and over the skip, then catches the fire escape ladder and swings up with the same effort John uses to step up onto a curb. John leaps too, but when he catches, agonizing pain shoots into his shoulder. But he doesn’t let go of the ladder. He dangles and catches his breath. He bites his lip with the determination of a bulldog and follows the large feet rung by rung up all five stories. All these weeks John staked out to catch this man, wondering who he is. Now he wonders what he is. A demon or an angel?

The feet disappear over the roof, and he scrambles up after him.

Eyes link briefly again. The man has nowhere to go. Over a thirteen foot gap between building roofs. But the stranger winks at him, then turns and does the unspeakable. He sprints, arms swinging, head lowered, hips tall. He never falters. He jumps. He soars. John doesn’t hesitate. He dashes after him. Although the stranger clears it by almost a foot, he is not perfect. He slips and falls — the first indication John's seen that he might be merely human. John doesn’t slow. He can do this too! He’s just as as capable. His foot pushes off, and for one blinding moment, John thinks he’s made it. Too late he realizes he’s close, but no cigar. Fingertips latch desperately on to the edge. He struggles to pull himself up, but his shoulder hates him. It’s hated him for some time. It always talks down to him. It says “surrender.” It says “let go.” His right hand obeys its master. His shoulder says to his left hand, “you’ve got nothing left to live for. Set yourself free.”

 

* * *

**Chapter ONE**

**_Two weeks earlier_ **

Candle wax drips in red pools to the floor, and the last gasps of the candle’s light flickers long shadows across the cramped attic. Weeks ago he told himself it was only for one night. He doesn’t know that there’s anywhere better to go. Or anywhere he should be. He just is. Here.

He stares as the fine, fairy-like cobwebs in the rafters as they dance from the candle’s heat. Nails poke from the walls, pointing like accusing fingers. Boxes and crates filled with other people’s lives, stack up like monuments to the pitched roof. It’s not cold yet. He’s thankful for that at least.

His life, as far as he recalls, began two months ago. He gets glimpses of what might be his past. All he really knows is that he’s educated, and he’s not a nice person. He might even be evil. He dreams of blood spatters and body parts and decapitations at night, vivid scenes that he puzzles over during the day. It would be natural to be haunted by nightmares, perhaps. But these are not nightmares; when he dreams, he feels exhilarated. 

He finds he doesn’t care either way. He just wants to know. Wants to be able to pin down something, anything, about who he is. 

If he knew he was a murderer, it would be a kind of comfort., yet when he walks on the streets of Cardiff, he feels no inclination to harm or kill anyone. He doesn’t understand. 

And the world isn’t right. It’s a broken, chaotic, unknown world. He’s heard enough of the homeless talk to know how the world turned nightmare overnight. Two years ago, the Pandora Epidemic struck. According to people of the street, it was a creation made by man to kill man. It almost worked— man almost destroyed himself. Within six months only a fraction of the world’s population survived, and he is one, he supposes. A survivor. He’s sussed out from others left behind that memory loss isn’t a symptom or after-effect. He believes his debilitating headaches might be a hint to his cause: traumatic head injury or brain tumor. He’s not sure which. 

He does know things most people don’t, such as it takes internal organs 24 to 72 hours before decomposition begins; the rest of the body five to seven days before it actively decays, but the rate varies greatly depending on where the body is stored and at what temperature. He knows it takes a man three to four minutes to drown. He knows DNA is a flame retardant and that there are over 25,000 species of bees, and that honey never spoils. He knows how to dismantle and put together a motherboard. He knows the name of every muscle and bone and part of the body. He knows each chemicals’ properties and how they affect fibers and flesh. Yet, none of what he knows give him a clue as to who or what he was or is. He thinks maybe there’s a reason why he can’t— like it’s something his subconscious doesn’t want to know. 

He knows he needs to eat although he resents the fact his body needs nutrients. He knows he needs fresh air, but that means contact with people, and people are dangerous. They have feelings. They want  _ things _ from him. Things he can’t give. 

Worse, they ask him questions, such as: what is your name? Where are you from? He thinks his name is William or Willy or Will. He’s not sure. He dreamed this once, a woman calling him Willy. In his dream he called her mummy. Awake, he’s not sure. But it’s the only name he knows, so he is William. Last name Hawkins. He just picked that. It’s common. He’s not. But he wants to be common and invisible, so that’s his name. As from where he’s from, he knows he’s not from Cardiff. His dialect is off. While he knows a lot about language and dialects, he’s not sure why he knows that either. He’s certain he’s from London. He feels it. He can close his eyes and see the entirety from Big Ben to back alleys of Hackney to Piccadilly and St. James.

Perhaps the places he dreams of are in London: the long hallways and wide rooms with the dead things in them. Impossible places, but they feel real. He feels at home there, confident and merry among the wildflowers and corpses and boxes of bone ash and blood, a way he never feels when awake. He thinks he should not love those dreams.

He’s also good at sketching and drawing. He has pads filled, using bits of pencils and coal. He’s drawn places and people, he’s not sure are real, yet he thinks they are. He’s made a study of the people who lived in this home from the photos they left behind. At least he knows the people who lived here were real. They paper his attic walls.

He decides, come morning, it’ll be time to look for food again. It’s tedious, but necessary. Meals are easy, but he needs a stash of groceries in case he gets shut in for an extended time. Never know when a gang of hooligans will come through shooting and looting. Some shops have reopened and some vendors set up wares on the streets during the day in parts of Cardiff. He’s found he’s good at sleight of hand, and his quick tongue as an equal distraction, he takes what he needs. Both skills he’s certain he didn’t get from being an upstanding citizen. 

Finally he drifts off on his cot made of old-stained, mismatched couch cushions. Shutting down his brain only happens after complete and utter exhaustion. Every day, new facts overload his mind. When he can not cope or his head throbs unbearably, he comes here and crawls into a tight ball and puts them away. 

At least his bed is semi-comfortable. Better than the back alley he slept in the first nights of his life. It’s been days since he slept. He wonders if it’s always been like this or if his sleepless nature is born of necessity. When he does drift off, it’s only in fits. He’s on survival mode. He knows about Maslow and his hierarchy of needs. Knowing where he’s at on the hierarchy doesn’t help.

He blows out the candle and lets exhaustion take him...

———————————

 

"Not quite, young master, let me say it again."

It's so exciting to be here, the smell of tar and salt and fish and everything dried in the sun.  Everything feels familiar and at the same time so new. Ahead of him stretches the long boardwalk, shops and storehouses to his right and ship after ship lined up to his left. The sea is glittering and the afternoon sun ahead of him makes a forest of the masts and yards and lines.   The sharp shadows cut the smooth surface of the dock into a Mondrian field. His shadow behind him is tall. He's facing the sun, but he isn't dazzled at all. Everything is absolutely clear.

Next to him is the man explaining everything he'll need to know for the voyage. He's so lucky to have a guide who wants to share his secrets with him. He listens and he hears about the different ships as they pass by: their rig, tonnage, and home port. They are so beautiful: each a world unto itself, built to the same general plan but each with quirks and a history all its own.  This one is long in the beam and slow to turn, that one has knees of Danzig oak that will crack in a storm some years hence. The figureheads have seen oceans he doesn't even know the names of, have been around the world, could be bound for anywhere after they leave here. He hears singing in the rigging above him.

He turns to look behind him and is momentarily blinded by a flash.  There's a sign hanging from one of the buildings behind him and a brass telescope hanging underneath the sign.  It looks real. As he looks, it turns a little on its chain and he sees the flash again.

"Now let me hear you say it back, young Hawkins."

"Sky, Royal, T'gallant, Upper top, Lower top, Mainsail," he repeats back.

"And if there's one even above the skysail?" The man, who casts the longest shadow, walks next to him unevenly. He's missing a leg, actually, and using a crutch which clicks against the boards.

"The moonsail."

"You have it now!" His guide smiles broadly. "Now let's see what you remember about these beauties." He sweeps a hand past the ships in front of him. "What treasure is stored in the hold of that Spanish beauty there?"

"Why would the sky be below the moon?"

"The way ordinary people organize things rarely makes sense." There's a sharp, slightly condescending tone in his voice that wasn't there before, as if he's looking over glasses perched on the end of his nose 

 

He hears the singing again and looks up to find out who it is.

_ All you pinks and posies _

_ Go down, you blood red roses _

_ Go down _

  
  


He wakes to creaking boards. Someone’s approaching. The light from the only window in the attic lets him know it’s early morning. He sits and reaches for the knife under his dingy pillow and sits up alert, then crawls silently behind the trap door opening. He’s rigged a lock from the inside that’s sturdy, but he’s cautious. He chose this place for a reason: The attic is small and inconspicuous. Better, the door is hidden in a closet ceiling and practically invisible to the eye. The only person who would know it’s there would be a previous owner. Or someone very perceptive.

Another creak. With cat-like reflexes, he silently leaps from his knees to his feet. 

He waits, back straight, ears perked. It sounds like it's just one person, but William listens hard for any sign of a second. One is better than many: one is likely just a scavenger, gone in a few hours. More than one could be anything: a gang looking to move in long-term. Or to rip open the walls for building supplies. Or to set the house on fire for the fun of watching it burn. He can probably get out the window before he burns as well, but the arsonists may not want any witnesses.

There's no sound of a second intruder, and William relaxes slightly. Whoever it is rummages around, scrounging for anything usable, which was long gone before William got here. He waits, hears footsteps down the stairs, then stealthily pads to the lone attic window and patiently waits. After some time, he sees a disheveled man stumble down the steps dragging a large plastic bag filled with treasures procured from this and other adjoining houses.    


Over the weeks he’s lived in the attic, no one has bothered to squat in the house. With so many lavish vacant homes to pick from, this simple, middle class neighborhood left alone is ideal for someone who wants to remain off the radar. Only people who remain in lower and middle class neighborhoods were the few survivors who refused to leave their homes. When the city turned off the water to this street to discourage squatting, most of those left as well. Those who survived with money or power lock their rich homes up tight and have other means of security. In neighborhoods like this, unsavory trespassers are often shot on sight, but no one lives on his street. Not anymore.

He occasionally William does "visit the neighbors”— his personal euphemism for using the loo in adjoining vacant houses. 

He digs out his long coat. It’s chilly in the morning. It’s the only  _ nice _ thing he owns. The only thing he has from his past that he can’t recall.

Most of all, he needs to go out on to the streets today because he’s thirsty. He ran out of jugged water last night. Weeks ago, he found the perfect place where water is easy to procure and replace with the added bonus that clean scrubs were in ample supply. He literally cleans up at hospital. Showers, shaves. Clean clothing. Since many doctors live on the premises, it’s simple to slip in and out undetected. There was more food and water than he needs. Easier than taking it off the streets. He pretends he’s a doctor. People believe him. He even wonders if he might be. Maybe a mad one. A homicidal physician. That would account for some of his dreams. 

He decides to shop after he cleans up, has a warm meal, meds, and water. When he looks like someone’s doctor, he doesn't draw suspicion in the market. It's easier to take what he needs that way.

He enters Cardiff Royal Infirmary like he belongs. It's got the worst security of all the local hospitals — it was a community health center for years before being pressed back into service during the epidemic. He’s nicked an ID tag that he keeps in his coat. He goes to the lockers to get what passes as money from someone’s trousers. They know someone is stealing from them. The last two times, he noticed little traps set for him and some preventative measures: new padlocks (simple to crack), new camera (easy to deactivate), new door access code (a joke of a combination). A quick shower, a change of scrubs, and he leaves his coat in “his” usual vacant locker. Next stop breakfast. He plans to slink out unnoticed after he makes a stop to the pharmacy to refill his supply of Triptan. Last stop water. 

That’s always his plan, but today is different.

———————————

“Doctor, in here! I need your assistance!” orders a young woman. She’s a doctor. Mousy brown hair tied back, big brown eyes and lips thin with worry. She squints to look at his name tag, but William siddles up close to her and gets in her face to distract her. “Not seen you here before,” she says. 

“New as of yesterday. I came in from London.” He steals a glance at her ID tag. Molly Hooper. He’s seen her in other areas of hospital. He’s seen her around before in shops. She resides nearby but doesn’t live in this building. Today she’s in A&E, but he’s seen her in the morgue and on rounds. He suspects that since there are so few doctors, most physicians wear multiple hats.

He follows her into an examination room where a man thrashes on the bed. Two nurses hold the hysterical man and try to calm him. William grabs the man’s chart and proceeds to look like he knows what he’s doing. One glance and he blurts out, “potassium chloride overdose. Most likely intentional poisoning.”

Doctor Hooper stops short, stares at William, and shakes her head. “Symptoms may align with that but why? That’s not a common poison and death is almost immediate— within five to ten minutes.”

“Not common but easy to procure,” William says. “And not if the body temperature has been lowered. Look again. This man is coming out of hypothermia.”

“Do you know who this man is?” she asks, stepping beside him and looking down at the patient.

“No, not that it matters although he is someone of importance. His wife is unhappy with him. Most likely because he’s sleeping with multiple partners. While he’s not unattractive, he is, how would most put it? Average. But with fewer men than women, standards for ‘companionship’ have lowered. Jealousy is the number one reason for homicide, is it not? As to the choice of poison….as you just suggested, since potassium chloride is an unlikely choice, less apt to be detected. She used a chemistry set and her large walk-in freezer. First she boiled up the poison, then locked him into said freezer, then gave the lethal injection after he’d cooled a bit. Finally she took her victim to a new location— to thaw away from suspicion. Unfortunately, not much can be done for him. He will go into cardiac arrest momentarily. I suggest you tell the authorities check the trash and home for evidence.” 

“How do you know all this?” she asks, but before William can answer, the unfortunate man does go into cardiac arrest. During the chaos, William slips out of the room and down the hall. It takes only a moment for him to procure the large water bottle from the storage closet. Unfortunately, he’s called too much attention to himself and the Triptan for his migraines will have to wait. He’ll have ration out the few tablets he has left until he can return. 

As he heads toward the service entrance, he feels something familiar. An itching, scratching, clawing excitement that spreads from cell to cell. He almost, almost wants to turn back. 

Even with a large water bottle balanced on his shoulder, no one stops him as he walks away from the Royal Infirmary. He supposes it’s not unusual with the shortage for employees to “borrow” water, but after his episode in A&E, he knows he’ll be remembered, which limits where he can go in the future, especially with people already suspicious.

After he drops the water back at his attic safeplace, he needs to venture out for his afternoon shopping trip. He finds enough to fill his bag and pockets and tucks a couple of interesting books inside his coat. He’s careful of his surroundings as he makes his way back to his sanctuary. While it’s moderately safe to be on the streets in the day, it’s only a recent development. The reinstated police presence signals society hasn’t completely unravelled, but it’s not safe enough to be on the streets after dark. The night carries far to many unpredictable elements. William estimates above ninety percent probability that possible death or serious injury could result for the average person at night on the streets. While he is not average, the risk still far exceeds the benefits. 

He carefully watches around him. He never goes home the same route twice. If someone follows, he loses them. He watches. He sees. He takes no chances. 

Most parts of Cardiff still have no electricity. It’s for those who can afford it. Even those with it, few use it at night. Lights in a home in any neighborhood is a signal for thieves and robbers that valuables lie within. No CCTV exists in most of the city anymore, most of the system was destroyed during the riots, looting, and madness in the aftermath of Pandora.

William prefers to navigate around the fringes of people. He travels into a crowd only when necessary. Shopping becomes a necessary evil. He tends to say what he thinks, and what he thinks apparently isn’t remotely polite. He doesn’t know how he manages to do anger people so often. He finds it doesn’t matter to him if the words are hurtful; however, the consequences of his words draw attention— unwanted attention. Therefore the less contact with people, the better.

It’s because he looks at people and knows their lives: What they do, what they did, who they did it with. Even who they are. He’s not sure how he knows all this information. He just does. He wasn’t sure how he knew about the man at hospital. How could he possibly know all those details about that man and his wife? He looks at people and knows! There’s that place he goes to in his mind with a maze of rooms with words and ideas and objects he doesn’t understand. He feels it’s a bit insane to have rooms in your brain. 

He’d rather believe that he’s not crazy. He thinks he might be psychic, which might explain the headaches and possibly the memory loss, and why he sees such horrible visions. The displaced people call him “the one with the third eye.” One of the books he pockets at the market is about the history of empaths and empathic abilities. He covers his lonesome attic window and replaces his candle, then sits on this cushions, legs folded in lotus position and reads through the book. Part of his brain repeats that this is all nonsense, and yet another part thinks it’s possible. How else could he know such things about people he’s never met? Since he can’t shut off his brain, he reads the entire book. Then he reads his book on bees. After, he picks up his sketch pad, sharpens his pencil with his knife and draws. 

When morning comes, he decides he needs more supplies. There always the risk he will get one of his debilitating headaches. He once had one last three days. He was fortunate to have water but had not had the forethought to have enough food stored. He would not be so careless again.

He goes out on the streets cautious. After what happened at Cardiff Royal Infirmary, he feels on edge, nerves pulled to the snapping point. It’s raining by the time he gets to the space by the university where vendors set up. His hair clings to his forehead and neck. He’s cold and miserable and most of the vendors have closed shop. He darts inside in a resurrected Tesco and decides to pick up what he can there. 

He scans the aisles. When shopping indoors, he always buys a few large bags of crisps and tucks smaller, more expensive items like paracetamol in his coat pockets. 

He keeps his coat open enough so that his scrubs and hospital ID are visible. They never accuse, search or question him, which wasn’t the case until he took on the doctor persona. At the check out, the hairs on his neck prickle when he hears a voice he knows behind him. 

He pays and doesn’t turn. If he does, she will see him, recognize him. He collects his bag. That’s when he hears Molly Hooper shout to the man next to her, “That’s him!” 

He slowly turns and looks the man with Molly Hooper in the eyes. He understands. All the traps this man set. He’s a doctor. A real doctor. William took money from this man’s locker. His eyes are sky blue and determined. His knuckles turn white clutching his cane. War injury? Those eyes assess William with military precision. They nod to each other in acknowledgement when the automatic door opens as someone enters the store. William bolts. The man with a cane yells, “Stop!” He hears the clatter as the cane drops. The man pursues him just as William knew he would. The chase is on. 

There’s something else William knows. Cardiff. Not like London with his eyes closed, but well enough. He knows the streets, the alleyways, the rooftops. Over the last weeks, he’s used this knowledge to save himself from unsavory elements, shopkeepers, and police. He uses it now. But this man is tenacious. For a man who starts after him with a cane, he’s moving fast. It’s rainy and wet and slick. The chase becomes a game. William’s chest thrums with excitement. 

His pursuer’s military experience is combat. He anticipates and reacts, and for a man who is older and shorter, he does it with exceptional speed and agility. His limp is long gone; William files that away to consider later. William leads him down an alley filled with obstacles, pushes old rubbish cans in his wake and jumps over rusty dumpsters, dodging and darting around corners. He still follows. William takes to the air and pulls down a fire escape on a nearby building, and as he climbs up, up the ladder, he steals a look back. He’s still coming, huffing and puffing and favoring his right shoulder. 

William leaps onto the rooftop and races across the slick tarred surface. The building next to this is just close enough to chance a jump. He’s taken similar leaps before this— one in recent memory, others he recalls as muscle memories. Heart pounding in his ears, he springs, legs stretching. He lands perfectly, still at full throttle. He glances back to see if the doctor will leap after him. As he looks, William slips, falls, and skids across the wet roof. His head lifts up in time to see the doctor jump and knows immediately his trajectory isn’t high enough. The doctor catches the lip of the building with his fingers. He’s hanging on, but not for long. It’s wet and slippery and he’s tired. 

William could leave. He could. But he stands up. Only one white-knuckled hand now holds on. William scrambles to the edge and looks down at the doctor's grim, breathless glare. William grasps the doctor's wrist in both hands, braces his feet against the lip of the ledge and pulls. As the doctor clears the roof of the building, William watches for any sign he'll attack, but he is too exhausted. William peers into his pursuer's round, almost stereotypically English face, notes his small frame, his suddenly uncertain stare. William knows he’s seen blue eyes before, and these aren’t really that special. Nothing about them should be. But they are. There are thirty-six words for the color blue William knows, but none describe what’s behind these. 

William drags s him away from the edge and kneels next to him. The man lays flat on his back, staring up into the rain.

“You really shouldn’t strain your shoulder like that,” William says. “It will aggravate your the gunshot wound.” William stands. He can’t stay. 

“How did you know about that?” the doctor asks as William opens the door to the stairwell. He takes one last, long look at the doctor. 

He shuts the door to the stairwell without an answer.

When he gets back to his attic, he strips off his wet coat and scrubs and puts on his tattered blue dressing gown. He opens one of the bags of crisps he’s managed somehow to bring back. They’re crushed and salty and perfect. He thinks it’s the most fun he’s had in his two-month life. When he falls asleep exhausted and dreams of those blue eyes and the doctor who’s chasing him.

———————————

He knows there isn’t another hospital within reasonable distance, but he holds off as long as he’s able. He manages to obtain water, food, some money. Scrounging for clean clothes is dangerous. It means going into abandoned homes, so he lives in his scrubs and washes them out by hand. It uses more water, but there are other places to obtain water, just more risky. A part of him wants to see that doctor again. He’s not completely certain as to why, however. 

He tells himself it’s the shower and shave he misses. 

After two weeks he decides to try. Showers and clean scrubs aren’t necessary to his survival but the Triptan is. It lessens the duration and intensity of his headaches. 

He promises himself he won’t let curiosity get the better of him and wander off to investigate hospital. He won’t look for trouble. He’ll just go the locker room, grab a shower, shave, pick up some clean scrubs and money if someone happens to leave their billfold behind in a locker. 

He won’t risk the water or go near A&E today. He knows it’s more than possible that they know the name on his ID. He’s careful. He’s patient. He waits behind a skip at the service entrance for a delivery. As the surgical supply man leaves, William tosses a stone in the door jamb— small enough so as not to be noticed, but large enough to keep the door from locking behind them. He doesn’t enter immediately. He waits an hour after the doctors shifts change, then he enters.

He needs a new ID, not so easily procured. Unless opportunity knocks, he doesn’t think he’ll get one today. He takes the stairs and walks the path of least traffic to the locker room. No one there as usual. He makes his way to the shower first. The water’s hot and steamy, the soap generic antibacterial, which always makes him cringe a bit. Still, as the water sluices down his back and abs, he’s thankful for the heat. The shampoo is just as generic, but at least his hair is washed.

He dries off and puts on a pair of stiff, clean scrubs. He takes a towel and a few flannels along with a dozen scrubs and stuffs them in his bag. He begins rummaging through lockers, keeping an ear to the door. He finds the same locker as before unlocked. He slips out the money, and sees the name. Poor chap. It’s his doctor with the unusual blue eyes. He stands up when it hits him. A headache. He panics at first, then takes deep breaths. He knows he’s in trouble. He has one tablet left. He stumbles to the locker to retrieve it from his coat. The onset is often fast, and it’s always best for him to find someplace dark where he can hide away until it subsides. There are a few places he’s used on his way back to his attic home. Sometimes the headache recedes quickly, but it often lasts hours or days. 

Thank god he hasn't eaten today because he’s bound to vomit. He’s thought through what he’d do if faced with this dilemma here at hospital. On every floor he’s earmarked a possible hiding place. There’s a small, rarely-used closet in the laundry room next door. If he gets in the back of the closet, he may be able to wait it out. He only makes it a few steps when the door opens. It’s him. The doctor. This time there’s no running. Instead William collapses to the floor. Those blue eyes he dreamed about frown in doctorly concern. He checks William’s pulse. His hands kind and warm. That’s all he recalls before it goes dark.

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson 
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> 
> <Set to Private>
> 
> "An Incident at the Corner Tesco"
> 
> First of all, I should say exactly how far I had gotten into trying to catch the thief stealing from the second floor locker room. ~~When I met with~~ ~~~~Be~~ ca ~~,

_Best not to be too personal,_ John reflects

>  
> 
> I asked Dr. Bellin if she could station a guard by the entrance, she went all corporate on me and told me, "John, campus security is a shared resource with six other institutions in the city. We use them to guard our vital functions, and for us that's our people, our patients, and our key supplies. The staff's coats don't make the cut. We've reported the thefts, the boys are already on alert for intruders. How else do you suggest we solve this?"

John thinks, and not for the first time, that it’s not the best idea to chat up the hospital director. John likes to keep in mind that it’s helpful to know that she likes to model herself as some kind of business leader — complete with the catchphrases. He walked in on her the other day to find her irritated because she couldn't figure out a way to get everything on a list to start with a _P_. Beca, conversely, has discovered that John was in the officer corps, and he suspects she exploits his tendency to jump in headfirst when he thinks he's spotted an enemy to defeat.

  

> The thefts tapered off for a while. But then they started again, something odd continued to become missing from the pharmacy. So I went back to Dr. Bellin and asked if IT could reprogram the door code and put in some new locks and an extra security camera. She put me in charge of making sure it was all done right. I went in looking for help, and came out in charge of a new project. I used to do the same thing to NCOs in my Army days. Probably ticked them off as well.
> 
> Not that my initial ideas have done any good. I thought we'd stopped the thefts, but a few days later I asked security to check the new camera, and it wasn't working. We found the camera's data cable had been very neatly cut, except for the one line that powers the little red indicator light. Quite impressive really. Or so I think now. I was livid when I found out. I asked around and realized that people were definitely missing cash and cards. More was gone from the pharmacy. They'd trusted my security measures. Now I've let them down. Then this mystery doctor manages to get access to an ID badge, giving him Carte Blanche to the whole hospital.
> 
> I went to Dr. Bellin with a list of measures we should take to catch the man, including security guards, telling her I believed he was the one responsible for the thefts. She nixed my ideas for further security measures. Even said to “remove those useless cameras.” So I was sort of seething when Mike, Molly, and I went shopping after work. I wasn’t any closer to catching him, and Dr. Bellin had pulled my authority to catch the man. I didn't really need anything just then, but it's best to go in groups these days. Trips to a supermarket wouldn't have been worth mention before Pandora. But we were long enough without a properly stocked one that I get curious to see what it’s got in. ~~like a kid.~~

John's breath catches, but he presses forward. This is why he's begun writing more in his blog recently. He needs a place to put these memories where they don't tear him to bits.

> I never used to bother browsing because I was always hurrying through with Rosie in the carrier, or standing half-asleep in the dairy aisle trying to remember if we needed milk. Although I miss the choices now, there used to be so many different kinds, I didn’t know what to choose. I remember Mary always looked a little too happy when I came home, and we were out of something. She'd volunteer to go out no matter what the hour, said a trip to the shops counted as "me time." She...

_I miss you, darling. I miss your beautiful hair and your smile and your bark of a laugh. You were so upset when you got sick, you thought Rosie would be scared of the rash on your face. And you were so frustrated that you couldn't take care of her. And then she got the rash too, you thought it was your fault. I could never get you not to believe that. I am so, so sorry_

John clenches his fist, breaking the thought. He was about to write down. Again. This is no good. He's already written about how his wife and daughter died. He's gone over and over the sixteen chaotic days from when Mary first developed symptoms to when Rosie was taken away with Mary to one of the designated quarantine facilities. He wants to remember and write about the good in their lives. He starts to type again when he realizes he'd forgotten what Mary called Rosie's stuffed lamb. How could he forget? 

> ...was always picking up something odd then like Crocodile burgers and Kiwi berries. The odd stuff now is usually produce that's gone a bit off. But back to my day. I was checking the eggs when Molly yelled. On the way to Tesco, she’d been telling us more details about the fake doctor, talking about almost nothing else. I told them I was certain the thief and this imposter must be one and the same. They pointed out I didn't have any proof. Which is also what Beca Bellin said, and was true, but I hadn't caught the thief yet. I was determined to catch this, guy, though. Which, considering that I was walking with a cane and he wasn't, shows that maybe I was a bit beyond reason at that moment.

John recaps the whole chase, except for two points: exactly how delighted he was when the arrogant bastard jumped to the next roof over, and exactly how ready he was to accept his own fall. Some things are not even for the blog.

> I probably sound happier than I should considering I didn't catch the guy. But it was the most exciting thing to happen to me since I moved to Cardiff. When I was thirteen I told my parents that I wanted an exciting life. Most of it has been the wrong kind of exciting. I probably shouldn't have survived being shot, I probably shouldn't have survived Pandora, but I did, I'm still here, and it was good to feel good about it for once. I went after the man like a bloody fool leaving Molly and Mike gobsmacked. I ached for some healthy excitement. Not death or blood or disease. As I ran through those streets and alleys, I thought the bloody git was good, but more than that, I was damn good too. I still don't know why he saved me. He didn't have to.
> 
> I've decided to try going without the cane for a bit, after not noticing I'd run up the fire escape without it.
> 
> Also, the thefts completely stopped after the Tesco incident, further support for my hypothesis that  the imposter and the thief are one and the same.

John wonders if he should feel grateful to this thief. He hasn’t needed his cane much since. It’s like the man is some bloody faith healer.

As he’s writing down his Tesco adventure, John mentally ticks off what he knows. First he’s had some medical training— he certainly knows his way around the hospital. As for being a doctor, John’s not so sure. It seemed if he was, he wouldn’t be on the streets. He also isn’t Welsh. That deep voice is pure English aristocracy. He’s smart, agile, and knows the backstreets of Cardiff. He’s educated. John also knows he’ll be back. John saw the challenge reflected back in those ocean colored eyes as John gasped up at him on his back on the roof.

Every day after, John habitually checks the locker room, hoping to catch him and records his findings (or lack of) in his journal. John doesn’t really expect to catch the man red handed, so when he opens the door to the locker room that day, and the man he’s chased over trash bins is standing only three feet way, John practically falls over himself getting to him. Instead of running away, the git collapses in agony at his feet, moaning, “my head.” A bit of a let down.

“Well, that’s just what I need,” John says, sarcasm dripping with every word, ”someone else to treat!” John sighs and resignedly kneels next to the thief. He’s a doctor before anything else. That’s why he’s still here— still alive. He immediately checks the thief’s pulse and pupils.

The man looks into John’s eyes with such an intensity, John regrets his harsh words. There’s something in there John’s never seen. He feels as if his heart and soul are open for the man to see. Then the man’s eyes fill with terror and panic as his jaws clench. Clear resignation of what’s about to happen washes over the man’s face before he convulses. John pulls him gently to the floor away from the benches and turns him onto his side and checks his vitals. Sobering to think that not long ago this fellow raced like a gazelle as John chased him across rooftops, and now he lies unconscious between John’s legs.

It’s not the satisfying capture John hoped for.

A few CT scans and Dr. Watson determines the most probable cause. Severe head trauma. One old trauma, one new. Skull fracture. Past hemorrhaging and cerebral edema remain.  He’s seen men with massive head injuries walking around, unphased. He’s seen men with a bump, die. It’s all a matter of where and how the pressure prevents blood from flowing to the brain and how deprived of the oxygen the brain is. Swelling also blocks other fluids from leaving the brain, making the swelling even worse. The clots are another issue, but at least they are small This seems to be the case here. John doesn’t know what permanent damage that’s been done, but fortunately they can now give him medication to treat the swelling and possible clotting. A second MRI reveals the medication is working and the edema has lessened.

But the mysterious man remains unconscious. After ten hours, Mike comes to find him.

“Give you a lift home, John? Molly’s taking a cot here.”

“I think I’m staying for a bit. Would you look in on Mrs. H. for me, though? I texted her, but, you know. Doesn’t hurt to have a look-in as well. Oh — she may be next door, Chippie said she could come over if she saw anything dodgy.”

Mike looks at John, and then glances at the mystery man’s chart. “All right. Though I don’t think he’s wandering off any time soon.”

Dr. Watson doesn’t go home. He does go to pay his tab at the canteen, to find out that the man had robbed him again. It’s like a challenge. He reaches into the man’s coat pocket and finds his money along with a few other souvenirs from the locker room.

John sleeps fitfully slumped down in an old chair next to the bed, which gives him time to observe this man. He’s handsome in an unconventional way. His jaw too long, mouth too large, cheekbones too pronounced. When open, his eyes were ghostly color of green and blue. His lips thick and bowed. Hair a wild mass of curls. His large hands like that of a surgeon with tapered fingers and the long, large palms of a psychic. His feet just as big and toes just as long. He looks alien and beautiful. John makes a lot of guesses watching the man on the bed.

——————————————————————--

“Welcome to the West side of the recovery ward, ladies and...ladies, it’s just ladies this morning, isn’t it? Always check in at the nurses’ station— hello— and _always_ read the instruction card here, beside the door, before you enter a room. Here, you see, there’s a note to keep the lights low. This patient’s got a head injury and unless there’s a medical need, we don’t want to go blinding him when he wakes up. He’s still unconscious, so: keep your voices low and we’ll just peek inside so you can see how the room’s set good morning, Doctor Watson.” Mike says this last without breaking rhythm, though he looks slightly surprised to see John. John attempts to squint the sleep away from his eyes.

“Good Morning, Doctor Watson,” echo the volunteers in Mike’s same stage whisper. Five sets of curious eyes take in the room: the bed with its unconscious occupant hooked up to monitors, John in the same chair he sat down in last night. And the same scrubs, which feel more wrinkled with every passing second.

“Um. Good morning. Bit early for orientation?” John attempts to refocus attention away from why he’s fallen asleep in a patient’s room.

“Mrs. Davies is out, so I’m covering, getting the tour in before rounds. Thanks to my brave corps of early risers,” Mike smiles back at the group. “If you’re delivering flowers or such you can use the corner table in a room like this. Keeps the space around the bed clear. Let’s head back to the canteen for breakfast. I’ll hand you off to Doctor Hooper for more about blood-borne diseases, and I’ll get Doctor Watson’s overnight observations before I start my day.” Mike ushers the group out the door with a nod to John, leaving him alone with the mystery man and the constant whir of the ventilation system.

Before John has quite decided to get on with his day, Mike is back with two coffees and an apology. “Sorry about the parade. Thought I’d use the tour as an excuse to get a read on our Tesco desperado here. Didn’t realize you’d still be on watch.” He offers a cup to John. “Do you want this? Or skip it, get an hour in an actual bed before shift?”

John takes the coffee. “‘Overnight observations’ were the inside of my eyelids more than not, at least after Mrs. Roberts down the hall dropped off about two. Before that it was the usual ‘someone’s been in my room, someone’s taking my things’ round she gets into. Thank god for the night nurse. I swear the nursing home sends her over here just to get her out of their hair.” He sips. “Molly’s doing the blood-borne safety stuff in person? Isn’t there a video...something? Not like she likes lecturing.”

“You’ve managed to stay out of all the teaching, haven’t you? I knew there was a reason you dated Beca,” Mike teases.

“Oi! I do my bit. And ‘dated’ is a stretch.”

Mike ignores John’s protests. “The safety presentations are Molly’s crusade. We had a good blood-borne video, but it’s pre-epidemic. Molls wrote up some stuff about Pandora because NHS hadn’t put together anything new. Now they have, but Molly says it’s shite so she still gives her own talk and doesn’t trust anybody except Sally Davies to do it for her.”

“No, I can see that. Hard to get Molly to change her mind once she has a cause.”

“I was pretty surprised you talked her out of alerting the police that we’d found our friend here,” Mike says.

“Mm.”

“Is that why you stayed? Wanted to keep an eye on him so he didn’t nick something else from the stores? You were our special task force in charge of finding the locker bandit, I’d think you would want to hand him over.”

“Well, that’s just it. Handing him over. The campus boys aren’t going to keep him because he’s stolen from the hospital. The police don’t have an officer to spare to guard him here. So as soon as he looks like he’s not on death’s doorstep they’ll put him in a holding cell with a pack of wolves.” John’s words come out more heated than he intends, thinking of other patients frog-marched out of A&E over doctors’ objections. He grabs the tablet on the floor next to him, stabs at it until he pulls up the MRI images. “What if he hits his head again? Look at these. When he’s healthier, we’ll let them know. Until then, he’s staying here, and we’ll keep an eye on him. It’s not like we don’t have the beds.”

Mike lifts his hands in surrender. “I know a crusade when I see one.” He looks over at the sleeping man, then back at John. “Plus, then you get first crack at solving the mystery.”

“Well, don’t _you_ want to know how he knew all that stuff about the Earl?”

 

“I’ll ask him,” says Mike. “If he ever wakes up.”

His friend could be correct— this mystery man has been unconscious far too long. John has seen head injuries far less severe that left the victims brain dead. Yet there’s plenty of brain activity going on. As Mike turns to leave, John notices sheets at the end of the bed move and his long toes peeking out stretch.

“You people are so fatalistic,” a deep baritone rumbles.

John can’t help smiling as he and Mike crowd around to check their patient. “We’re glad to see you’re with us,” John says. “My name is Dr. John Watson, and this is Dr. Mike Stamford. How’s your head?”

“An eight,” he answers.

“Time for me to start rounds, I’ll be back.” Mike waves as he heads out the door. The man watches John from the bed, faint tension lines of pain around his eyes and mouth. John thinks he looks rather confident for being injured, tied to an IV, and alone with a man who chased him across a rooftop. Good, maybe he’ll feel like answering questions.

“What’s your name?” John says.

“Shouldn’t you be advising me of my rights first?”

“I’m not the police, I’m a doctor. You’re here because you collapsed. Do you remember that?”

“I think I sustained a fairly severe head injury. I just happened to ‘collapse,’ you say? Nobody ‘helped’? Checking what I remember to get your story straight?” He reaches for the call button.

John sighs. “Okay. We don’t know each other, but I do remember you pulling me on to the roof. So no, I didn’t repay that by knocking you on the head.” He reaches out with the tablet and sees the man flinch, very slightly. Maybe not so confident. “You did injure your head, though.”

The man studies the MRI image. “Twice.”

“Yes! That’s what I think too. Are you a doctor?”

John gets a pained glare in return. “Is any of this relevant to getting me pain medication?”

“No,” John concedes. “Can I get your name? We have to call you something.”

The man taps the label on the MRI. “John Doe’s working well enough.”

“But,” John holds up his purloined ID, “as you already know, I’m John Watson. We can’t both be John. Too many Johns as it is.”

The man on the bed doesn't look confident. “William Hawkins. I think.”

“Okay, William Hawkins I Think. I’ll write an order for pain medication, and I’ll pop in after my rounds.”

They leave the room and Mike pulls John aside by the arm. “Molls said she wanted me to tell her as soon as our mystery doctor became conscious. Do I?”

“Let’s give our Mr. Hawkins a bit more time to rest before we unleash her on him.”

"And no police."

"Not with that head trauma."

“What about Beca Bellin? Even if she is the most unconventional hospital director that ever was, she should know. She paid for the cameras in the locker room— even though I wondered if it had more to do with her seeing a few of the younger docs starkers. You probably should tell her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she didn’t already know. After you got her all riled up to solve the thefts. Said they were…” Mike makes air quotes. “‘ _Essential to our security_.’ You should at least speak to Bellin. Smooth over things. After all, we don’t know who this man really is: He’s smart enough to pose as a doctor and solve a crime.”

“I’ll talk to Director Bellin, but you’re right. She already knows he’s here. Even though she does have a shrewd business mind, she has a soft heart for outcasts, and I think this guy might be one.”

“She’s an alright egg. Usually. But that Hawkins character is a wanker,” Mike says. “But then you’re a right tosser too at times.”

John laughs as he pats Mike on the back. He wonders about the wankers in the world. It seems to him that Pandora took the kindest people and left most of the tossers like him alive. He’s had many a disagreement with his peers about the epidemic’s cause— he doesn’t want another argument now, not when John’s shift was about to start.

He waves Mike on as he goes to the locker room to shower and shave. He lingers at the spot where he found William Hawkins. So many unanswered questions remain. John spends the next ten hours with one patient after another, going through the questions in his head. He occasionally sticks his head inside Mr. Hawkins’ room, but he's asleep, probably with the help of the morphine. He sews up a few arms from knife wounds and sets a broken leg.

At lunchtime he's confronted by an irate Molly, stomping over to his table, electronic notebook clutched tightly in her hands. “Why didn’t you tell me he was conscious and responsive?”

"He's not — how did?— I'm sorry, Molly," John finally settles on. This is just as much her mystery to solve as his. "You talked to the police about the dead man, and I didn't want you to have to lie about when he woke up, but I don't want him hauled off just yet."

"Not entirely your secret to keep, John," she says. "I saw the MRI, too, you know. And I didn’t call ‘the police,’ I called Lestrade. And convinced him to come here rather than take him in for questioning. I think he takes our mystery man's accusation seriously."

"Thanks, Molls. I should have trusted you. His name's William Hawkins, by the way. I got that out of him, at least. When's Lestrade coming by? I ordered morphine for Mr. Hawkins, and I think he's getting some needed sleep. Pointless to question him if he's under."

"If he's asleep, why isn't he in his room?"

John's stomach drops. "Oh, hell. Can you help me look?"

“I don’t believe this. You owe me, John Watson! I’ll take the first floor and the basement. You take the upper floors.”

John frantically searches rooms and hallways, trying not to look like he's in a panic. He focuses on tall people, guessing that William might have appropriated a set of scrubs again. Now that he's looking for someone, the hospital seems more crowded than ever; the familiar nurses and staff are far outnumbered by strange faces.

"John?"

And one familiar one, showing up at just the wrong moment. "Greg! Hi!" John tries not to actually squeak at the rumpled detective.

"Everything all right? You seem a bit…"

"Oh." Greg Lestrade is here to talk to William. He really should tell Greg that his witness — his suspect — may be checking out AMA. Probably would mean jail for sure when William is caught. "Yeah, everything's fine. Probably just need something to eat. Busy morning." _Not good, Watson. Too late now._ "Buy you a sandwich?"

"I'm here to interview a patient, actually. Molly probably told you about him — impersonated a doctor? Shouted to everyone that Sir Arthur's wife had poisoned him? Quite the turn-up. I'll try to catch you after."

"Oh!" _Think fast._ "He's not here. Not. In his room. He's in imaging. Right now." John nods. "I'm his physician, I saw him this morning. Scheduled him for another test."

Greg sighs. "I guess I'll take that sandwich then. Do you know how long it's going to be?"

John walks with him towards the elevator. "Probably half an hour to an hour, but could be more if there's a wait, terminal may be on the fritz again." Damn it, he can't babysit Greg and look for William at the same time. He hears a nurse sigh loudly and slam down his clipboard at the station. "Ah. He's got one of my patients, probably should go see what that's about." He pushes the call button, trying not to make it obvious that he's fleeing. "I'll come get you once William's back from imaging. Have to owe you that sandwich."

"All right. His name's William, then?" Greg asks as the doors open. John nods as he hurries away. He can tell that the nurse is a bit miffed at John's sudden interest in the recovery ward patients — turns out Mrs. Roberts is railing again about someone taking her things, only this time there _are_ some clothes missing, so it's taking far longer than usual to calm her down. John listens with half an ear and then hurries off mid-complaint with mumbled advice to check Lost and Found, no doubt cementing the reputation of surgeons as arrogant prats. Bother. He'll worry about that later.

He’s on the third floor when John notices an attractive woman walking down the hall ahead of him. She’s got long red hair, a bit unkempt, wearing a pastel-colored paisley dress with blue hospital slippers. Her dress is a bit tight in the bum, and she has a nice curve. John has to admit, he doesn’t usually go for women this much taller than him, but her bum is pretty cute the way its swaying back and forth when she walks. If he had more time, he’d stop and chat.

John wants to get a look at her though. He’s curious. Even if she’s wearing a dress more like what Mrs. Hudson would have in her closet, her legs are pretty shapely. He’s checking rooms as he goes. She seems to be having difficulty walking, and as she stumbles, he notices the hair on her legs. And long and black. That’s okay, he tells himself— women don’t need to be a slave to shaving their legs. He steps up his pace to get a peek at her face and check the next room, but she begins walking faster. It’s starting to become a sprint between them— he walks faster, she walks faster. Odd she is obviously having difficulty. John finally calls out, “Miss! Miss! I’m Dr. Watson. May I help you?”

The woman stops. Shoulders tighten, hands stretch and fingers spread at her sides. Those hands. He’s seen them. John realizes that Mrs. Roberts was right this time about her clothes going missing.

He’s dreamed of chasing the bloke before— he imagines he can chase him again. William dashes into the stairwell, and John flies through the metal fire door after him. He should call out for someone to help stop the wanker, but John doesn’t want to call attention. Instead, calls himself a bloody fool and follows.

“William stop! You’re not in any condition. Especially not in that dress.” John almost laughs at his last words.

 _At least he’s not in heels_ , he thinks. Although hospital slippers don’t seem to be working so well for William either. He’s having a time, hand grasping the railing as he runs down them. William also ignores John’s pleas. He’s halfway down the steep stairs before John catches him. Literally catches him— his body falls back in to John’s.

He leans on John as William shakes his head at him. “I can't stand being here.”

“Oh, and you think the street is a better? Are you coming back to your room quietly or do I need to call an orderly?”

“I do think I need to go back to bed. I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”

“I bet you are.”

William leans on him a bit as they climb back up the steps. Somehow they manage to make it back to his room without too much attention. He does have a nice bum.

“I need to give Mrs. Roberts her things back. This is her wig as well?”

“She has three. I liked the red on me.”

“Well, it does bring out your eyes. But that shade of lipstick. Clashes with the dress!”

William almost laughs. “I thought the eyeliner was a nice touch.”

“Well, you do have the right shaped eyes for it. The eye shadow is a bit much though.”

“No one stopped me, you know. Until you.”

“You did a shit job pulling out your IV. You got blood all over her dress.” John helps him pull the dress over his head, and hands him back his hospital gown.

“It’s cotton,” William says. “Cold water. Rinse it out.”

“You should do the same to your face,” John laughs. “I’m surprised no one else noticed you’d slipped out.”

“They thought I was knocked out from the morphine. And they would have been looking for a man. People see, but they don't observe.”

“Well, your plan might have worked if Dr. Hooper hadn’t noticed you weren’t sleeping in bed and said something to me. And you could have ended up dead because of it.” John keeps Lestrade’s visit to himself for now. No need to spook the man more.

John gives William a damp flannel to wipe his face, then begins getting his IV set up and back in. He’s cursing himself for not realizing William might run.

A disheveled Molly opens the door and stops, staring at John and William. “It would have been nice if you let me know!” she says.

“I thought the objective was not go announcing it to the entire hospital,” John says, shaking his head as William winces. He always was shit at getting IVs started.

“Here, let me do that before you turn him into a human pincushion.” As she gets his IV started, she looks down at the stranger in the bed. “Listen. I know you don’t have any reason to trust us or for us to trust you, but you need understand that we’re doctors and above anything else the patient comes first,” Molly says. “The most important thing to us is your health and welfare.”

“Also, for some fucked up reason, I believe you and so does Molly here,” John says. “So, are you going to trust us, or not?”

The man with the deep, posh voice opens his mouth to answer, but snaps it shut, then brows draw together and his lips press tight. Finally, he looks at John and says, “I don’t know.”

“You may not have any choice,” Molly says.

“It’s complicated.” The man on the bed sighs, a struggle warring behind those eyes. “I don’t know who I am,” he whispers.

“You don’t know who you are,” John repeats.

“I believe I said that.”

“Memory loss from head injury,” John says, giving what he feels may be the most plausible diagnosis. “You’ve had more than one. One old injury. Here.” John points the back of his own head. ”Hard to say how long ago. Possibly two years or more. The other injury here is fairly recent— the last few months. Have you experienced seizures before this?”

William nods. “Many times. I recognize the symptoms and treat them,” he answers.

“Explains our missing Triptan,” Molly says, crossing her arms. “Also, I see you’re on morphine. And that you’re a past user who tried to hide his habit. Look at his feet.” 

The three of them look at William's toes. Molly brings the light over to better show the scarring from needle tracks between them. “You’re right,” John says, looking more closely. “Don’t know how I missed that.”

“Don’t be so hard on yourself, John,” Molly says. “He obviously tried to keep his habit hidden. The scarring isn’t very noticeable. I guess those years as an intern working with addicts made this more obvious to me.”

“Well, hiding details that can impact your healthcare is unwise. Hiding addiction dangerous. We need to know what medication you’re on to treat you properly. For example taking the Triptan,  you were treating the symptom not the cause,” John lectures. “You have swelling in your brain. We’re treating that along with possible clotting. The swelling seems to be subsiding, but you need rest. You can’t go trying to escape and jumping around.”

William rolls his eyes.

“You said you don’t remember who you are, but do you remember anything prior to the injury? Anything at all about your life?”

Williams closes his eyes before he answers. “There are bits and flashes at times when I’m awake. In dreams, there are people I don’t know who I call by name. How does this pertain to my supposed addiction?”

“I am assessing your condition. You’ve sustained severe head trauma. Where do you live?” John asks.

“In an attic, which has nothing to do with my prognosis.”

“But where is the attic? We ask these questions to check memory.”

“And to know where to send the bill. I can tell you that I have no memory prior to two years ago. When can I leave?”

“You need treatment. You need to sleep with your head elevated, so leave the bed in the position that it’s in. And stay in it unless you need to use the loo. I’ll need to take you off the morphine, but we’ll give you something else for the pain. The IV needs to remain in for now, so no more pulling it out.  We need it to treat the edema. You’re also dehydrated and malnourished. But you can read your own bloody charts, can’t you? While I do have a lot more questions for you, I’ll ask one more, then we’ll let you rest. It’s really something I need to know.. Why’d you run?”

The man eyes flutter shut as he presses his lips tightly together in concentration. “Fear triggered in my amygdala, releasing stress hormones to my sympathetic nervous system. My hippocampus and the frontal cortex processed this contextual information, while my inhibitory pathways dampened the amygdala fear response. My brain functioned efficiently.” He opens his eyes and looks on at John frankly.

“Not really the answer I wanted or expected,” John says, watching Molly remove the morphine drip.

“I knew that you were going to ask me questions. I abhor questions. I hate this. Your answer? I took your money. Taking possessions from others result in negative consequences. I don’t relish being in the custody of the police, who I’m sure you’ve already called. It’s also a possible reason why you’ve kept me here. I obviously cannot pay.” He sighs and closes his eyes in dismissal. “The police will ask questions are far worse! So tedious.”

“Do you always answer questions like that?” John asks.

“I believe you said ‘one more question.’ That was another.”

“So it was. I’ll let you rest then. Nurses are here. The call button is next to you.”

“And there are no police waiting outside your room thanks to us,” Molly says. “You need to get better. Let’s concentrate on that.”

“Ohhh, let’s!” the man shoots back, words dripping in sarcasm.

“We really do want you to heal,” John reassures him. “We have to call you something. So is it still William?”

The man in the bed hesitates, watching John Watson’s fingers gently apply gauze and tape to the top of his hand where he’d removed the IV. “Yes, William Hawkins,” he looks up. His eyes are open wide and have turned an incredible shade of sea green. He hesitates. “It’s all I know.”

He’d love to give William reassurances about his memory, but it’s too soon and too tricky to predict. He needs more information, and it seems this William Hawkins has no answers— at least none that he can give.

“I’ll come in and check on you again later today,” John says. “Don’t leave.”

John and Molly walk out together, stopping at the nurses’ station. “Do you really think he’s lost his memory, or is he hiding something?” Molly asks as she parks herself next to the desk.

“It’s possible he’s faking, but I don’t think so,” John says. “It’s directly related to his head trauma. His memory will probably return, but it’s unusual he doesn’t remember who he is— that’s more likely from psychological trauma of some sort.”

“Maybe it’s both,” she suggests. “The world is messed up. I’m surprised more people don’t walk around without memories. I sure would love to forget the last two years.” The nurses at the desk listening in on their conversation nod in agreement

“Not at the cost of who I am.” John crosses his arms and leans against the desk.

Molly grabs his arm and pulls him down the hall out of earshot of the nurses. “So, we’re going to keep this whole incident between us.” It’s a statement, not a question. He should tell her now about Lestrade’s visit, but decides that was his decision. She doesn’t need to be complicit in that, too.

“Molls, I think we’re already in too deep to turn back now.”

At last at the end of the day, he returns to a darkened room. Mr. Hawkins’ eyes are shut as John softly enters.

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” says William as he snaps the light on above his bed.

“John. Please call me, John.”

“John,” he says, opening one eye getting used to the light. “You may call me Will. I see you’re ready for your day to end. No surgery tomorrow.”

“Why, yes, quite ready for it to end. And no, I don’t have surgeries scheduled on Sundays unless there’s an emergency.”

“You intend to stay the night here again? You haven’t been home to your housekeeper who’s not a housekeeper.”

“Landlady...she’s... what?! Now how in the bloody hell did you know that?” It’s easy enough to surmise he’s never left, but Mrs. Hudson? That’s brilliant.

“I’m not sure. I could just—  tell.”

“That’s bloody amazing,” John says, sitting in the chair next to the bed.

“Really. That’s not what most people say.”

“What do most people say?” He scoots to the edge of the seat, leaning closer.

“They tell me to fuck off, cross themselves, or say I have the third eye.”

John slaps his knees and laughs. “I bet they do. I don’t adhere to voodoo. You’re most likely very observant and intuitive. You many have forgotten the process as to how you come to your conclusions, but you still do it. Kind of like a plane on autopilot.”

“So kind of you to refer to me as automated.”

“Sorry. That was a bit not good,” John smiles despite himself. It’s been hard for John to really smile anymore. It feels good not to force it.

“No, I meant it. I’d rather be divorced from emotion. Caring is not an advantage.”

John notices an odd expression on William’s face. “Something wrong?”

“It’s right there. I can even hear the person say those words to me, _‘Caring is not an advantage_ ,’ yet I can’t access it.” 

John thinks it curious this Will referred to his mind as something he accesses— like he’s a computer. He doesn’t have time to pursue the thought.

John takes Will’s advice and goes home to get some needed rest. The next morning after the weekly staff meeting, he’s called in personally to meet with the hospital director, who has plenty of questions regarding their new patient John can’t answer or won’t answer. Seems she’d already gone to his room and met him herself, then interrogated the entire staff who’s had contact with Will. Her own words were: “Not the kind of person who goes around making many friends, is he?” John agrees he treats most people like a lord treats peasants, which makes him all the more surprised at her suggestions regarding the patient.

One stop at the nurses station tells John that most of the staff confirm what William said: they refuse to go into Will’s room anymore with chipped ice or the like. Only Sister Katherine does so willingly, and she is far crankier than Will. She just sasses back and Will respects it. John does his rounds quickly when he sees Greg leaving Will’s room with his eye twitching.

“I see our new patient affects you the same way he affects most of the staff here,” John observes.

“He is a pompous bloody arse is what he is!” Lestrade huffs, striding towards the nurses' station. John laughs sympathetically.

"You're here about last week's heart attack, then? Molly said Hawkins told everyone in hearing distance that it was a poisoning."

"For what it's worth,” John says. “He can't tell me how he figured out the murder, and he claims he has no idea who he is." John realizes Lestrade was watching his response and schools his face to friendly-professional blankness. "Is that what he told you?"

"What's your opinion as a Doctor of Medicine, Watson?" They walk to the break room.

"I'm not at liberty to say, Detective Lestrade, unless you've subpoenaed his medical records. So is Hawkins a suspect? Do I have a murderer in my hospital?"

Greg's mouth twists. "Can't really comment on an open investigation."

" _Right_."

"Look," he sighs as he opens the break room door. "This one's not an easy one. I know you take your oath seriously, but—  I also don't think you'd have brought up the subject if there wasn't anything you could say. If there's anything you feel would be in the public interest for me to know, I could— respond in kind."

John stops to consider as pours some coffee. "Greg, there isn't any reliable test for amnesia, much as we all wish there was. But head trauma severe enough to give him blackout headaches could absolutely cause the kind of memory loss he describes, and he's not faking the headaches or the head trauma. We have MRI and CT scans to prove it. His symptoms have been consistent, he's not trying to charm the staff the way malingerers do— quite the opposite, actually." He looks squarely at Greg. "My professional opinion is I don't know what to make of him, but I believe he's telling the truth."

Greg looks relieved as he picks up a clean chipped cup from the drainer near the coffee. "That makes me feel a bit better about arresting the late Arthur Mostyn's wife last night, then. Still waiting on tests, of course, but the chemistry set, the walk-in freezer— pretty much exactly what Hawkins said we'd find."

"Wait, the dead man was Sir Arthur Mostyn? You arrested Lady Mostyn? Better you than me,” John says, taking a sip and grimacing. “Isn't her brother on the provisional council?"

"Mr. Pelham may have mentioned that when he called."

"Wasn't happy?"

"Apparently if I don't watch it, he'll have my job, and I'll find myself without means to provide for my family." The inspector's tone is dry as paper.

John winces and looks away from his fellow widower. Ever since the plague it’s considered fairly crude to make remarks about anyone's family, but people who run cities don't have to think about such things, he supposes. "Well."

Lestrade takes a sip of his coffee. "This is bloody awful!” he says, closing his eyes for another sip. “To your question of whether you have a murderer in your hospital, Doctor Watson, I don't have anything definitive to rule him out. He might have predicted what we'd find because he had a part in the deed in the first place. I'm not done with him yet, and I suggest you keep a fairly close eye on him. A few years ago I'd have an officer guarding him, but we're a bit short-staffed."

John half-smiles at the tired non-joke. "Heard that one before. So you'll be trying to find out who he is?"

"If it comes up, sure, but finding out if he knew the wife and where he was at time of the Earl's death is more the thing."

"If it does come up, though, if you have any lead on his identity, could you let us know? We could use a proper medical history, and..."

"And what?" Lestrade is watching him again. Must have heard something in John's tone.

John frowns, trying to put thoughts together without sounding too off-balance. "You talked to him,” John says. “You know he's clever, you can hear he's posh. And to hear him tell it, he's been living with no idea who he is and bloody great lumps on his head. Someone..." _Extraordinary_ , John thought but catches himself. "...like that, and no-one's looking? There ought to be someone looking for him. I think it bothers you. It bothers me."

"There's plenty who've nobody left to look for them. You know that."

"Not that talk like sons of Earls. Put him in a suit, and he could be on the provisional council."

John takes the opportunity to turn the conversation away from his own muddled feelings. "Whoever's looking for him would probably think well of you. And if you're going to tick off Mark Pelham, you could use a friend in high places. You know people like that look out for their own. Would look good, you trying to return one of their prodigal sons to the fold."

"You've half a point there,” Greg says. “I'm still not sure why this is bothering you, but out of respect for my fellow professional and poker player, I will let you know if I uncover that posh tosser's C.V. See you Thursday night?"

"Ta. Bring your paycheck so I can win it off you," John waves as Greg heads out the door. Greg hadn't known, or hadn't thought it worth mentioning, but Pelham is not only on the city council but on the board of the hospital as well. Once he finds out the man who accused his sister is a patient, who knew what he might do if he decided to find an alternate suspect for the police?

John is aware that he was leaping to possibly faulty conclusions, perhaps indulging too much in unkind thoughts about Mark Pelham and his apparent ability to forget, while defending his family while other people heartily wished that they still had families to defend. And perhaps judging Will (why was he "Will" so quickly, anyway?) too gently, reading too much into his seeming otherworldliness.

But given the facts at hand, it doesn't seem like it was going to be safe for Will to remain here for too much longer.

Someone like that, someone ought to be looking after him, John thinks as he walks into William’s room.

“I hear you gave Inspector Lestrade a difficult time,” John says, taking his usual seat in the chair next to Will’s bed. He rubs his own leg as he studies his patient. Some color has returned to his cheeks, he no longer looks as dehydrated. His output on his chart looks good. His little junt seems to have had no ill effect.

“I’ve had far too many _visitors_! Your hospital director. Doctor Birtha What’s Her Name.”

“Beca Bellin.”

“And Geoff, who was not forthcoming with why he was here. Not that I didn’t know immediately, but at least the man followed protocol and came to get my statement.”

“Greg. His name is Greg Lestrade.”

“I don’t know my own name, why would you expect me to remember anyone else’s?”

John sit forward up a bit more. “You seem to remember mine.”

“Your name is worth remembering.”

“Thank you. I think.”

“You are welcome.” William sits up a bit more in bed. “The detective mentioned he was here yesterday to speak to me, but you told him I was in having an MRI.”

“That’s what I said.” John tries his best not to give it away he covered up his little escape plan, but William already knows. He decides he may as well lay it all out for him. It might be a bit tricky. But...

“Will. I know you want to be released. Lord knows the nurses want that too. We’d like to make sure that’s your injury has stabilized. Frankly the seizures are troubling, but the last MRI this morning indicates the swelling is almost gone. If you take the medication prescribed regularly, we should have it under control. We’d like to keep on eye you and run a few more tests,” John says. “You need a few more days of observation.”

“I don’t see that any of that’s necessary.”

“No, you wouldn’t. But I don’t want any repeats of yesterday, so before you make any hasty decisions and go back out on to the streets, you should be a bit more knowledgeable about your condition. Which brings me to my suggestion or...more like offer: Our director, Beca Bellin, the woman you met this morning, approached me about offering you a job. Here. Considering your obvious medical training, we could use the help.”

His green eyes blink in confusion.

“We’re extremely shorthanded. Any assistance would be invaluable to us, and it would give you a chance to work on reining it that attitude.”

“Short handed or not, why would anyone offer a job to a person off the street?” Will asks, honestly perplexed.

“Ah, if you didn’t notice, you’re bloody brilliant. I guess you could call our director a bit of a maverick. She saw something in you and thought you’re worth the change. Beca’s rather unconventional in her approach to running the hospital, but it works.”

“Beca?”

John blinks and blushes. Will is quick. He caught the familiar usage of her first name. “Um, yes. Dated her for a short time. Very short. We just didn’t...jive. Nice enough woman.”

“I abhor people.”

“Yes. I know.” Over John’s conversations over the last two days, John realizes that Will does all he can to push most people away. It’s like he wants people to hate him. Other the other hand, John seems to be the exception. At least that’s what Beca picked up on in her conversation with Will.

“I think everyone who meets you knows you don’t like them, but you don’t belong out in the streets even if you are good at nicking people’s pockets and stealing from vendors. And this would also keep you close to hospital, give you access to medical treatment that’s needed. Molly suggested you start in the morgue.” He’s almost certain William is going to say no, instead, the man bursts out in deep, rich laughter. He hasn’t see William do that much. At all, actually.

“Thank you, John. But...”

“Before you say no, I have one more proposition for you. Actually, it was Mike who suggested it. The more I thought on it, the more it makes perfect sense. I could use a flatmate.”


	3. Chapter 3

Did he hear John correctly? He needs a flatmate? Why would anyone ever want William as a flatmate? He hasn’t experienced surprise much, at least not that he recalls, but this John Watson never fails to surprise. Even more, he’s surprised at his own reaction to John Watson. His first instinct is to splay out a person’s life as he visualizes it. He doesn’t do that to John. He’s not sure why.

“Actually, Mike suggested it,” John repeats, sitting on the edge of William’s bed. “It’s a nice flat. Extra bedroom. I could use someone around to help out. Mrs. Hudson’s there alone at times. You’d be someone else she could count on, and having a flatmate, we can watch each other’s backs. And it’s better than some old attic.”

“I...don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll think it over.”

“I have a few days.”

“About that,” John says. It’s obvious John’s about to wave another carrot on a stick. William wonders how else John will surprise him. “Since I’m a doctor, well _your_ doctor, I could release you into my care. You want out of here. I’m offering you a safe way. Mike said he’d lend me his car that he never uses. We could move you in.”

“I don’t have much.” He seems like he’s waffling, but he’s already made up his mind.

“Still, you have a few things. Think about it.” But John says _think about it,_ like it’s an order. John was an army captain. He takes charge. It all feels so familiar.

“A job and a place to live. This also is about restitution. A way for the hospital to get me to pay for the things I took.”

“In part. But it’s a generous offer. You’ll have a salary. Not much, but it will pay for food, your share of the flat. Economically, it helps me out too.”

Will blinks once. He decides to follow his captain’s orders. Or doctor’s. “How about now?”

John smiles brightly at his answer. It’s resplendent! William feels something odd in his chest. His own lips turn into a slow smile in return. It feels odd on his face, but he can’t stop.

“Right then. I’ll get you discharged. My shift ends in an hour.” He turns to leave, then thinks twice. “You should know that Mrs. Hudson, our landlady, often walks in without knocking. Also I have nightmares. Sometimes I scream and break— things. Lamps and such.“

“I don’t know what my habits are,” he snaps, and is immediately sorry. John’s face falls, then quickly adds, “but I’m sure they’re worse than yours.” He bites his own lip. Like saying that will help! But it does. Will watches the corner of John’s lips curl up.

“It’s set then,” John says, smile widening with approval. “In the meantime, _try_ to be nice to the nurses.”

“Very well. But I do so love it. It’s like punching people in the face with words. Lying here in bed, it’s hard to pretend to like people.”

John laughs. “Well, you won’t have to do it much longer.”

William doesn’t understand why John wants to live with him, but for now, accepting his offer is the better choice. Not only is it more appealing than returning to his attic, but moving in with him is the best way to gather more data about what John's motivations may be. 

After John leaves, he’s a mess of fidgets as he puts on his scrubs and old trainers. He’s so tense he has trouble tying his shoes. He abhors them— there’s a hole in one toe, and they’re not that clean, but it’s all he has. He looks up to see Sister Katherine with papers in her hand.

“Surprise! Surprise!” Will’s voice drips with anything but. He should be good like John asked, but he can’t help himself with the Sister. He enjoys their verbal jousts. “I didn’t expect dinosaurs to move this fast. And they sent you in to shove me out the door!”

“You know if you treated others with respect, people might actually like you.”

“I don’t care if people like me. It’s perfectly fine that they don’t like me. Not everyone has my good taste. We’ll make a deal, shall we? I’ll try to be nicer if you try to be smarter!”

“You, Mr. Hawkins, need a good spanking.”

“And you, Sister Katherine, should be sent back to St. David’s!”

“I would love to, but I drew the short stick and had to work here, so I could get the pleasure of seeing you sign the papers and toss your skinny little arse out of here.” Sister Katherine hands him the forms. “Not fast enough, if you ask me.” As she explains his home care instructions, Will gives an exaggerated sigh. “Keep rolling those eyes, and maybe you’ll find your brain inside there somewhere! You are like a child! Open your ears! You need to listen,” she says.

“A nun cussing! Abominable! Won’t you end up in hell?”

“Even St. Monica, the patron saint of patience, would cuss at you! And devil himself forgiven! Just sign on the line where the X is, and we can be rid of you,” she says.

“Me pretending to listen to you should be enough. Any imbecile would knows what X represents on a form,” he says, “and I, obviously, am not one. You on the other hand…

“Ready?” John says, bounding through the door.

“John!” Will jumps to polite attention. His anxiety amplifies with John in the room. The Sister takes the signed papers from Will’s hand and looks at Dr. Watson oddly.

Will brushes her off. Instead he worries he’ll need help walking, and he doesn’t want to be a bother since John has his cane today. But Will’s legs remain steady as he follows John out the front and to the parking lot. He’s nervous. What if John’s changes his mind after William has lived with him? He couldn’t even hold it together and “be nice” to Sister Katherine. John’ll most likely throw him out in a week. He’s sure no one could put up with him. His heart starts pounding, and he becomes more and more agitated, trying his best not to let John know his apprehension.

He doesn’t understand his sudden need for John to care. Or maybe he’s misreading his responses. Maybe it’s not about John. Maybe he has a past fear of riding in cars. He’s ridden in a car before may times, he’s sure. As he hurries into the passenger seat and shuts the door, he determines the cause of all his nervous energy. It is John. Close proximity to Dr. John Watson. How had he missed this? He gives concise direction to the attic, afraid to say much else.

While Will determined he’s not opposed to car rides, he acknowledges John may be a good doctor, but he is a horrible driver. Whatever this mini car is, it’s cramped and has absolutely no leg room, and Will’s head hits the ceiling with every bump in the road.

“I understand that the roads are deplorable, but are you intentionally aiming at every pothole in the road? For a man who’s worried about returning his friend’s car in one piece _and_ my medical condition, you’re jogging the bolts loose in the car along with the brains in my cranium.”  Will grasps the seat as they round a corner a bit fast.

“Sorry,” John says, and nearly sideswipes a man on a bike.

“You do have a license.”

“I certainly do. For medicine.”

“What?!”

“I know you don’t have one. For either. So shut it.”

He’s does shut it, for a bit. He’s trying his best not to wring his hands or fidget. He needs to start over— say something _nice_. “I’ve thought about what you’ve said, John, regarding my abilities. I believe you are correct. I exercised them repeatedly on the nurses and staff at hospital.”

“I heard about it,” John says. “I understand it's hard to pretend to like people, but perhaps you could pretend that you don't need to tell everybody their personal histories in the middle of their workday?”

Hmm. Not the reaction Will wished to elicit. He stops and starts over. “I did what you said, thought about how I was coming to each conclusion. I noted internally what I was absorbing from each subject that supported the conclusions.”

“Really? What did you find?” John looks at Will, and as he does the car jumps a curb.

William takes a deep breath. He wants to tell John to please keep his eyes on the road, but John is interested in what he’s saying, so he forges ahead: “For example, often there are hairs not matching those of the subject. I recognized immediately if they belonged to the subject and if they were human or not! I know dog from cat and breed distinctions. I observed other fibers. I know what and where they originated. Even the dirt on shoes, I could say where they’d been recently! It's not magic— it's science, comparing data from the subject against a catalog of prior observations." He looks out the windscreen. "I am not sure how I came to know such information, but I have it. In here along with all scientific terminology paired with it,” he said and tapped his head. "It could all be made up. Except people seem to think my conclusions are correct enough to get upset about them."

“That’s brilliant!”

With those words, Sherlock glows inside. He’s filled with something he can’t place. It’s like he’s never felt it before. How would he know that? “Thank you, John.”

He’s tempted to tell John about his mansion with the rooms and how going into them helps him find this information, but it sounds insane, and he doesn’t want John to think that of him. He would much rather John keep looking at him the way he is now.

“This is the place.”

John pulls up to the curb. William hesitates to get out and show John where he’s been holed up for these few months. While impressing someone feels alien to him, he wants to impress John Watson. His legs feel rickety when he gets out and leads John inside. It might be John’s bad driving, or it might be he doesn’t want to be back here. They step over dumped dresser drawers, discarded clothing, and broken toys. Most furniture and any other objects of any worth were taken months ago. Wallpaper torn, carpet soiled with looters bootprints. A few old family photos hang on the walls. William knows the family’s story— he’s played it enough in his head. He straightens a photo. The mother was the first to get sick. Father’s notes and children’s lonely pictures litter the floor, all telling the story of the family that once laughed and played here. All gone. It’s one of the reasons William selected this home— it had no one to come back to it. It was just like him.

“Someone’s lives all there on a wall with no one to remember them,” John says sadly.

William sighs. But that’s not true. He does. He knows more about the people in this home than he does about himself. Part of him hates to leave. It’s the only family he knows.

John follows with a couple of crates in his hands into the closet that leads to Will’s attic. Will moves away the boxes on the shelf that help hide the trap door. Although John’s favoring his left leg again, he leaves his cane inside the closet and climbs the ladder.

He helps John with the crates. The attic is a tight space for the two them with all the stacked boxes still storing old clothes and Christmas ornaments. William never moved them. John opens a few, wanders around and stops.

“I can see why you chose this place. No one would know it was here.” John scratches his chin as he surveys Sherlock’s sketches pinned to the wall. “Who are they?”

“Just people,” William says. “Some are the people who lived here— the people on the walls downstairs. Others I’m not sure if they’re people from my past or ones I’ve just imagined.”

“Interesting.” His eyes tell Will what he’s thinking. It’s not a question, but it’s one he hadn’t pondered. Why these subjects? For someone who says he dislikes the company of others, Will chooses people as subjects. It’s like John knows what’s inside him, what he won’t even admit to himself.

John begins to unpin them and take them down, but William places his hand over John’s. He flinches and pulls back. “Leave them,” he says. “They belong here.”

“But you drew them.”

“I have pads filled with them,” he says motioning next to his bed made from assorted sofa cushions.

“You’re very talented. It seems a waste to leave it behind.”

“Somethings are better left behind. I really don’t have much. Not even the clothes I first found myself in.”

“Don’t tell me. You were robbed. Heard that hundreds of times.”

William remembers all too well. “They took whatever valuables I had. Stripped me of my clothes and shoes. I was unconscious in an alley at the time. Only left my coat, and they only left that because I was laying on top of it. I made certain after that day to always pay attention to my surroundings and hid if I felt an inkling of migraine.”

“You didn’t in the locker room.”

“I’d planned to use the closet in the storage room next door. You found me before I managed to get there.”

John pats his back.

He takes one last look at his attic home, his hodge-podge cushion bed, his sketches of people from his mind, then he hands a crate to John and picks up the other. John steps down the ladder first, and Will shuts the trapdoor. He’s glad he left his sketches on the walls to keep the boxes company. It’s only clapboard, but it’s people’s lives: Children’s handmade Christmas ornaments wrapped in newspaper and bubble wrap.

William is still thinking about the idea of home during the short drive back to John's, and this leads him back to considering the rooms he doesn't want to tell John about — the ones filled with the information he uses to understand what people keep hidden. The rooms themselves feel like home, the layout so completely familiar he moves through it without any effort. But what kind of home is filled with impossible things? Not just impossible: macabre. Unsettling. File cabinets buzzing with flies. Display cases of exit wounds. He finds half completed chemistry experiments in labs. Jars with heads and hands and toes and eyes. He finds rooms with bodies stacked in crypts. He’s fascinated and afraid every time he opens the vault drawers. He is mad or a murderer? Why would he keep these macabre images in his head? What sane person would enjoy studying a corpse to see how fast it dissolves in different solutions?

“Oi! Will?” He blinks awake into the real world with John shaking his shoulder. “You okay?” The doctor stares into his eyes and frowns. “Might be a form of seizure.”

“No, it’s not,” Will says. What if John knew? But that’s just it—  William doesn’t even know himself. What if he _is_ some psychopathic killer? A Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde? He’d remember, wouldn’t he? Or he’d leave some evidence behind. Perhaps he did, he thinks. Perhaps he has hidden things from himself, scraped the incriminating soil off of his shoes, washed the tell-tale hairs off of his clothes.  


It’s then he notices the smell is all wrong. Burned plastic, tar, wood, and flesh. The buildings are all wrong too. He recognizes the cobbled concrete wall on his left that separates the road from the old Branch Line tracks and the charred rubble of low-rise apartments and alleys on the right. He should have been watching. “You need to turn around.”  Somehow they’ve ended up in Butetown. “Now.”

“I was. I took a wrong turn awhile back.”

Even before Pandora this was a rough place. After, it became the most crime-ridden of sections. Most of the dwellings are blackened skeletons, trees scorched and scarred, the grass consumed and replaced with trash, weeds, and muck. When learning the layout of the city, Will came here. The experience from the knife wound in his side was enough. Will never returned.

As John turns onto the next side street, Will knows it’s a huge mistake. A lorry blocks the road ahead— a trap for those foolish enough to wander in. John slows and makes a u-turn jumping a curb, but before he completes it, Will sees three men push an old rusty car into the road, effectively blocking their escape. Mike’s little car faces the three in the standoff on Maria Street. The largest one in the middle swings a jimmybar, the other two, large boards with nails. They look worn, desperate, and dangerous. The one in the center, who’s obviously the leader, lurches forward.

Will looks over at John, and Will is astonished at what he sees: utter composure. John becomes the eye of a storm as he puts the car in park. With deadly calm, he reaches in back of him, then opens his car door. “Stay here. This will only take a minute.”

John steps out of the car, draws his Sig Sauer, and levels it at the leader, which gets the attention of the two hoodlums on each end, who stop waving their the boards in the air. Will sees the glint of his gun as John waves it a bit. The leader isn’t as impressed and maintains his white-knuckled grip on his iron bar. “Move the car,” and John’s order sounds like a gunshot. The man on the leader’s right lowers his makeshift weapon to the ground.

“We’re not movin’ a thing, but you need to,” the leader barks back, and points behind them. “Ya don’t want ta go ‘n make my mates angry now, do ya?”

John gives an almost imperceptible nod to Will that men are creeping around toward the back of the car. “I’m usually a patient man, but you’re being rude. Move that car. No one needs to get hurt.”

“Boo, hoo! I’m gonna make little man cry.”

John purses his lips together as he pulls the trigger. A crack rings out as John shoots a board in one of the men’s hands. The three of them jump back from the flying splinters.

Will shouts, “Behind you!” John twists just in time to dodge the man barreling up behind him. The big man falls turns to see the barrel of John's pistol pointed at him, and backs away a few steps.

“Next shot goes between your eyes unless you move that car,” John growls at the leader.

The leader nods. His face is red and bloated in anger, but his men push the heap away. John slowly slides back in the driver’s seat, gun still trained on the leader’s head. John puts the car in drive and steps on the gas as Will grabs the wheel and steers. They speed off, skidding around the corner.

Will stares at John, who keeps looking over and grinning back like a loon. "Those guys were terrible carjackers," John says.

"Nobody has any standards anymore," Will replies.

They both begin to giggle, the hysteria just subsiding when they pull up to John's.

Will helps John with the crates from the trunk and sets them outside of the garage of his new home. “I promised Mike I’d lock it up for the night and keep it safe.” They both have a laugh. After what happened, it seems silly. “Mrs. Hudson keeps hers here, and it’s never been touched.” John snaps the bolt lock shut.

Will fingers the lock. “I could pick it,” he says. He really could. Someone has already tried. He picks up the very wire the would-be thief tried to use and discarded in the bushes next to the door. He carefully unbends it, kneels, and slips it into the keyhole, his eyes narrow in concentration as he twists and pivots the wire, then the lock clicks open.

“Hmm,” John says. “I’d take the car back to Mike, but it’s getting dark.”

“It’s safe enough here. Bolt cutters are faster. It’s well lit here, and police frequent this neighborhood. Those are the deterrents, the lock, merely a hindrance.”

John laughs as William snaps the lock back. “You’re brilliant.”

“Or a criminal.”

John pats William on the back for the second time in the evening. “Or a locksmith. As far as criminals, I'm the one who just took a potshot at someone."

They walk toward the apartment with the crates. As John unlocks the door, Will bounces with excitement, and when John opens the door, he takes up the stairs two at a time and waits at the top for John  They enter John’s living room, and he drops his crate and strides to the old comfy couch. He forgets the cards and magic and spins around then flops down on it like he owns it, taking the Union Jack pillow in his hands and pressing it to his chest. He stands back up and jumps on top of the chair’s seat cushions, staring at the wall.

“John! You have...wallpaper!” Will touches the flock trellis design of the rose colored fleur de lys motif on a dark metallic blue background, then strides over to the fireplace mantel. “Photos in frames. Oh, that’s you with a mustache! Mmm...much better without. I do like my doctors clean shaven.” He stalks over to a table. “And look at this vase!” he picks it up, turns it over. “This is perfect!”

“I never thought of it as that,” John says, picking up his newspapers and notes off the coffee table next. He sets them on the counter next to his open laptop.

“It is!” He moves across the room to the bookcases. “It’s more than perfect!”

“There’s not much here. Some worn old furniture. Old pictures. Old carpet. Books.”

The wallpaper’s texture is slippery and smooth yet soft where the flocking is. “Yes! Perfect.”

“Uh-huh, wallpaper.”

“It’s grand having wallpaper after bare walls. And books!” His long fingers run over the bindings, reading the titles.

He hears a woman call from the doorway. She’s dressed in a tasteful blue floral print dress. “John Watson, is that you sneaking your new roommate up the stairs without so much as an introduction?”

“Mrs. Hudson, may I introduce to you William Hawkins. William? Mrs. Hudson, my landlady.”

Will waltzes up to her and bows, then kisses her hand and Mrs. Hudson giggles. “That was unexpected,” she says, winking. “My you are dashing. Such a looker! You’ve picked a good one, John.” She turns to Will. “There's another room upstairs, if you'll be needing it.”

“We need two rooms,” John stresses.

“Of course,” she adds and winks again. Will wonders if she has a tic.

Then he realizes. Until that moment it hadn’t occurred to him that John could be interested in him physically. That seems an odd oversight now that he's thinking about it — it's an obvious potential motivation for John inviting him to live here. From John’s response, Will’s not sure how John feels about it either way. Will's not sure how he feels about it either, but he's irritated at himself that his own perspective might have unscientifically limited his conclusions about John. It's reasonable that Will himself hasn't thought about sex in the last two months, considering he's spent that time trying not to die. 

Mrs. Hudson leaves them “time to be alone” but not before giving them some posh cheese on toast.

“Don’t you go expecting me to do this every night,” she says, taking the empty tray downstairs.

They sit down and eat. Looking across the table, Will sees John as a possible sexual partner. It strikes him all at once that he could almost certainly seduce John. He tries to follow the lines of reasoning that have led him to this conclusion. What has he observed?

John's flat is lovely, but too big for one person. He disparaged his furniture, but it doesn't match things Mrs. Hudson would pick, based on her outfit and her age, so it's almost certainly his. But not all of it is to his taste. John is used to living with other people. Also, he wants to take care of people — obvious from being a doctor, but not every doctor would have worried about his patients safety in police custody, as John expressed to Mike when he thought Will was unconscious. John considers the feelings of the hospital staff. He is lonely, empathetic, and a caretaker. That's a fairly easy angle to play, Will thinks. Probably fairly simple to express some sort of emotional vulnerability — something John has likely to have experienced in the past. Find a reason to touch his hands. John is a surgeon and apparently quite a marksman— he's likely to think about his hands more than the average person.

Will is taller than John, and it's likely John doesn't like feeling short. So Will would need to be level to John, somehow. Maybe sitting like they are right now. He imagines John standing and coming to Will, concerned about some deep loneliness Will might reveal. Will would grasp John's hands, draw them upward, brush lips over a knuckle, over the thin skin around the cleft between two fingers. He would show some hesitancy, yet make eye contact, giving John the opening to assure Will that his feelings are not unwanted. Will would reach up to pull John closer — best to avoid the bad shoulder until he has more data about what level of pain John experiences. He would put a hand to John's side and reaching up, lay two fingers under John's jaw, drawing him down into a kiss. His hands will be close enough to vulnerable points on John's body to provoke a slight thrill, a subliminal fear response, without making John feel out of control. Although John's lips are a bit thin, when he licks or bites them, they have a splendid blush about them. John might even flush when aroused.

From there depending on how John responds to the initial kiss, getting John into bed might follow any one of three — no, four — sequences. However it might happen, getting John into bed is key: John is, Will concludes from the photographs, that John is a romantic and a bit of a traditionalist: sexual activity in bed is going to have a greater emotional weight than elsewhere in the flat. Also, bed will allow more flexibility in positioning depending on how dominant John wants to be during sex. Will imagines it's possible John, the caretaker, will reveal a desire to be taken care of: to have his lover to take initiative, dip gentle fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and palm his cock as if it was something treasured.

Will stops the thought, feeling the heat low in his stomach and realizing he is not unaffected by this train of thought. So does he want to seduce John Watson?

He likes him, and that’s more than he can say about most people he’s met thus far. John is intelligent and compassionate. He’s rather ordinary looking in extraordinary ways. It's possible, though, that his attraction to John is in fact Will's strong preference for living in a perfect flat with an interesting person rather than an attic by himself.  He decides he needs more data: more observations of John, and of his reactions to John.

His sandy hair looks common, yet upon inspection William notes the pigmentation of hair follicles more eumelanin making it lighter, yet contains pheomelanin with darker hairs mixed with achromotrichia or grey hairs. Like grains of sand, the colors vary from dark to light. He is unable to ascertain the number of different hair colors John possesses. He decides he must inspect them closer when given the chance.

Later, as William follows behind John upstairs to his new room, he strains to look around the crate to see John’s nice, “round bottom” that he’d heard nurses speak about at hospital. He’d listened to them appreciate John’s “good features” along with his “good nature.” William recalls a touch of annoyance when nurse Sarah slipped John a note in his scrub pocket. He must remember to remove it and throw it away.

Yes, John’s attractive. His blue eyes sparkle and when he talks. Will lingers on his every word. Mrs. Hudson seems to think Will and he might like sharing a bed. Maybe this would work after all. Sex doesn’t have include the heart.

As John sets his crate down, Will sits on the edge of the bed and unfolds and refolds his clothes to put into drawers. He looks at John and knows what John would like to ask but is too polite to do so.

“All scrubs, only scrubs,” Williams says. “Which is advantageous since that’s what I’ll need to wear at my new job.”

“Nevermind the fact that it’s where you nicked them from,” John teases.

“Yes, fitting don’t you think?!” William places his hand over his chest. It beats. It doesn’t feel like it’s ever been broken. It thrums harder looking at John Watson.

“It’s starting to get dark and it’s lights out. I always pull the blackout shades down about this time.” Will helps him. They have actual electricity. No more candles.

“Not much to do here. We could read, talk, listen music, play Cluedo before we go to bed if you’d like. I’m a bit keyed up from earlier.”

He rushes down the mazes in his mind, and pulls down the Cluedo box, but nothing comes to him. “Talk. And play Cluedo. Yes. Cluedo, we could play Cluedo.”

They go downstairs. John pulls out the game from the closet and sets it out neatly on the table. “Which piece do you want to be?”

“The revolver.”

John flushes. William realizes his mistake, but John says nothing since he regrets bringing up something William has never played— or at least doesn’t remember. “The colored pieces?”

“Yes. I’ll be Colonel Mustard and you can be Mr. Green. How’s that?”

“I’d rather be this lead pipe or rope,” he sighs with a wave his hand. He’ll save John time. “Please explain the rules.”

“The object of the game is to determine who murdered the game's victim and where the crime took place.”

“Thus the rooms,” William says. “And weapon used. Hmm. Therefore these are the suspects, I believe.”

“You move around the board to gather clues.” John continues to explain the rules, which William concludes are ridiculous. “You know,” John says, “you’ve never done that thing with me like the other hospital staff. Where you tell me what I am, what I did.”

“I didn’t think you’d like it. People don’t.”

“Well, for most it’s a bit not good, but I’m asking you. Everyone’s had losses. You have too, you just don’t remember them. Tell me what you know about me.”

Sherlock rolls the dice first, and proceeds toward the Ballroom. He thinks of his own rooms that he goes into and decides it’s a lot like Cluedo. “Served in the service as a doctor. Shot in the left shoulder. Most likely Afghanistan. You thought you were retired as a surgeon, but no longer.”

“That’s amazing. How did you know about Afghanistan?”

He remembers John’s words: It’s all him, not some magic inside. “It’s the way you carry yourself, back ramrod straight, military stance. Your confidence, timber of your voice. Comfortable with giving and receiving orders. Old tan lines. Captain John Watson. As for your wound, you favor your shoulder, rub it at times.” He doesn’t tell him about the scar on his shoulder. “You also have a psychosomatic limp that pops up from time to time. You didn’t need that cane the day you chased me. Lately you haven’t used it much at all, bit of dust on the handle. And I do believe you’ll do without from now on.” Will winks at him. John gives him an odd look as he realizes he’s left it in the closet near Will’s attic.

As John moves his piece around the board, Will looks at the ring John still wears. “You were married. As for the rest of your family, evidence is on the mantel and around the room.” He nods to family photo his wife, daughter and what looks to be his sister. “Wife Mary, daughter Rosie, and Muttonpie.”

John’s mouth falls open. “Muttonpaws. But there’s no way you would know that! I couldn’t remember!” John looks a bit lost as he says.

Will didn’t know stating a stuffed animal’s name would cause such anguish. “It’s written on the back of the photo,” he explains. “Mary wrote it. I could make out the impression.”

“That’s remarkable,” John says. He stands and walks across the room and stops in front of the fireplace, his finger brushing over the image beneath the glass. “ _I forgot the name_. How could you read it? it’s so faint. And a mirror image…how could you even...” John blinks tears back. He clears his throat and steps back as if to distance himself from the pain.

Will worries he’s upset him. He knew it was a bad idea! John sits back across from Will and continues the game. He doesn’t act angry. Just a bit sad. He picks up the dice and throws, but he’s quiet. Will thinks he kept a lot to himself that he could have revealed. But he didn’t. He’s glad to know these things just the same. That John came to Cardiff to forget, yet he keeps mementos all around him so that he won’t. That Mary liked lilies; she kept them in the vase on that very same table, the water ring beneath. That there are days when John puts his service revolver to his head. He saw a few blond and grey hairs in the hammer, but he hasn’t pulled the trigger because there are people who still need him. People like Will. Finally, that John keeps a journal on his laptop to help him cope. It’s open, and at a glance, he’d read the page. It’s about him, and for some strange reason, it makes Will glad.

John plays with him, rolling dice, moving around the board. Will thinks it’s a stupid game. Far too simple, but that’s not the point. He’s interacting with John. He likes that.  At last Will clears his throat. He’s prolonged the boredom enough, “Mr. Green in the Study with the rope.” He slips the cards out and sees he’s correct.

“So, you’re the killer,” John says. “Brilliant.” John touches his hand when he says it.

William doesn’t think it’s brilliant, but the he thinks way John licks his lips is. He could make a pass, but he decides he likes John too much to try. He made John sad for a bit. No need to make him uncomfortable too. He says goodnight and climbs the stairs. Will stares at his new ceiling. It’s free of cobwebs, and there’s no candle to cast long shadows, only the moonlight shining in his window. He rather likes the moonlight and decides not to pull the shades. No need for a light with the moon so bright. It’s looking at him, smiling down from way up there.

He hears a knock on the door downstairs. John told him. He often gets people who need medical assistance. The neighborhood knows he’s a doctor. He says it’s not unusual that he gets called out at night. He says not to worry, he always takes his service revolver and his sixth sense. He’s not sure what that means.

He hears John talking then after a time, the door closes. His patient has left. He hears John’s feet softly padding up the stairs.

Although he feels warm inside that John checked on him, he has too much to think about to get to sleep. He walks through the rooms in his head to a place with no unsettling surprises in the vaults. The door opens onto a beach where the sun comes out from behind the clouds and a cooling onshore breeze fans his face. There's a marvelous dog, Redbeard, that a little boy play with in the sand. Will thinks this must be a memory like everything else in the rooms, but seems too odd to be a proper memory. He must be a boy, but all the details Will associates with him make him seem like an adult. It's like the boy was born wearing a three-piece suit. It's a lovely beach and always lovely weather, and the boy is an interesting puzzle. Will asks him questions and is amused at the prim responses.

As he is having this imaginary conversation, Will turns to look out over the water and is perturbed to see half of the sky is nearly black and full of stars, as if it was deep night without a moon. On the beach, the sun shines overhead, but just offshore the waves disappear into shadow. From the dark, he hears a deep, creaking groan. There's a shadow blotting out some of the stars, and Will sees the outline of a huge square-rigged sailing ship slowly moving towards the shore. He can see it more clearly now, and when he hears the groan again he sees it's under some sort of stress, listing to one side, and seems to be drifting rudderless and with nobody steering it. There's no obvious threat from the looming ship and yet Will is terrified, heart racing as he watches.

He turns back to the sunny beach to see a body on a slab, sewn up tightly in a ship’s sail. It's rough, stiff canvas sewn tightly with thick thread that William cuts open at the chest. Male, sandy haired. Muscular. A scar on the shoulder. Face still covered with the sail. He’s cracking open the chest, dissecting the thoracic cavity, removing the heart and lungs. Although it’s a cadaver, it bleeds. There’s so much blood. He rips the sheet from the cadaver’s face to sop up the blood. It’s John. Will bend.s down to kiss John farewell and is shocked when John reaches up to embrace him. Will clasps John to him and gasps awake, sweating, wondering what was memory and what was a dream.

He’s still shaking from the dream, wondering what it could mean, fearing what it could mean. John wanted him here to help keep him safe. Maybe someone should keep John safe from him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another chapter. Wow, do we make an awesome team!

 

 

 

> **The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson**
> 
> <New Entry>
> 
> <Set to Private>
> 
> _Sorry, No Vacancy, Room Taken _
> 
> You may be wondering whether I caught either the thief or our fake doctor, and whether they turned out to be the same person. They were, and I did — well, I don't know if "caught" is exactly the right term, but we do know who he is. And where he is. Right now he's asleep in the upstairs bedroom of what is now our flat. I know, I wouldn't have believed it either if you had told me last week this was going to happen.
> 
> It all started this morning when ~~Beca~~ Doctor Bellin met with me. I'd hoped she was going to congratulate me for being right about the thief after all. Too much to hope, I suppose. She jumped right over that bit and told me she was hiring him as morgue attendant! Not entirely what I was expecting. Then she rattled off these reasons.

_She had actually been a bit too excited. "Doctor Hooper's always telling me she doesn't have enough staff for the morgue or the Path lab. The good hires got snatched up by those prats up the street at University Hospital. And then this Hawkins fellow walks in and makes an off-the-cuff diagnosis of poisoning that turns out to be correct ? Course we're hiring him. We must use our resources effectively, John! You and Doctor Hooper can keep an eye on him. Just, you know, make sure he doesn't lift any more scrubs from the laundry sup— " Beca snapped her fingers and turned away to scribble something on a pad. John guessed she was figuring out how to pay Will out of the laundry budget, or something else that would make the auditors sigh. She didn’t mention the meds from the pharmacy cabinet or personal missing items. Must be those might be forgiven or conveniently forgotten. The conversation having gone far better than he had expected, he was about to make his retreat before Beca could change her mind but then stopped, realizing there was one thing she probably needed to hear from him. Telling her was risking getting Will un-hired, but she'd be royally pissed off later if she found out she'd been kept in the dark._

_"Beca, before you find out from someone else: the woman that Hawkins accused of murder is Mark Pelham's sister. So you might get a pissed-off call from management."_

_"A board member's sister has murdered someone?" Beca tapped her pen to her teeth. "Interesting. I can't obviously leverage that to my advantage right now, but budget review is coming up soon." She smiled. "Thanks for the tip."_

_Maybe not put that bit in the blog, John decided. Best not to put some things down in writing._

 

 

> When I told Mike her idea, he reminded me of my need for a flatmate. I wondered why I hadn’t thought of it!
> 
> When I suggested the job to Will— that's the mystery man's name — , he repeated each and every one of Doctor Bellin’s motives from our meeting— it was like he was standing there in the room when she told me. Turns out he’s a bloody mad genius, and not such a bad sort. Then I brought up my extra room. I was surprised he took me up on it so quickly.
> 
> I borrowed Mike’s car to help move him in. We had a bit of excitement on the way home when I took this wrong turn, but all went well in the end.
> 
> All in all, he didn’t have much to move. He’s full of surprises, though. He’s an artist. Picks locks. Charms Mrs. Hudson. She made us dinner and flirted with him!
> 
> Checked on Will twice last night. Can’t be to cautious when someone suffers from such devastating head trauma. First bed check was after a patient with a child came to my door. Turned out the little one had an ear infection. Rosie went through six months of having one every other week, it seemed like. Mary and I practically needed counseling by the end, we were so irritable from having no sleep. I gave the father some instructions and antibiotics and sent them on their way. Then I checked on Will. He was sleeping peacefully. ~~He looked so~~

_Unearthly, John thinks, with the moonlight from the window. As if he was from a place with different colors, somewhere untouched by the endless grays and browns of the city. I wanted to reach out and...just... touch his shoulder, just to make him real. God, what's gotten into me?_

 

 

> It’s the second check that night that got me worried. I woke with a start from one of my nightmares—  the usual one where I’m on a battlefield and a mate is shot in the chest, and I can’t stop the bleeding. I heard yelling upstairs. Forgetting Will was here, I grabbed my gun. As soon as I realized Will was having some kind of nightmare too, I put it away and went to check. At first I didn’t think I should go, but his medical condition concerned me. I stood on bottom of the stairs a moment and listened. He kept yelling, but I couldn’t understand a bloody word, so I went up.
> 
> He was up wound tight in the sheets. I bent down to check on him and felt his head and checked his pupils when he sits up and kisses my cheek! I jumped back in shock and was halfway out the door when he calls my name. He settled down after. I, however, couldn’t sleep. That’s why I’m telling you my day.

The next morning after a fitful night John comes out of his bedroom to find Will already up. He has completely made himself at home. He’s dressed and sipping on coffee at the table. He’s left a mess in the kitchen: coffee grounds, water splashed across the counter and floor.

He’s also taken John’s laptop and is leisurely surfing the web. “I’ll thank you to take your hands off that,” John says. All he can think about was his blog and if Will read it. Not that it mattered, but he’d rather not have all his personal thoughts exposed.

“You left it on the table.”

“It wasn’t an invitation.”

“Might as well have been. It was open.”

John flinches a bit. Maybe he had. He wonders if part of him didn’t expect Will to do this. “I have a password,” he says in defense.

“A password?!” Will laughs and snaps his fingers. “I had it in two tries.”

“Glad to know I’m so transparent.” He’s looking to see what Will read.

For the first time Will glimpses up at John. “Not true, John Watson. A few days ago, I would have thought I divined it somehow. You showed me I am not. I was the transparent one to you.You taught me something about myself. I simply used logic and observation to determine the password.” Will points to the keyboard where the keys were most worn. "This smear across the _K_ says it's used more than you would while typing normal English, and anybody listening to you type your password knows when you reach for a number or the shift and when you use your dominant hand."

John glows with an inner pride he hasn’t felt in some time. He’s blushing, all because this flowery-tongued wanker guessed his password. Will grins down at the screen.

He’s not sure if Will read his blog, but he suspects he did. It was the last thing open last night when he finally went to bed. He doesn’t know how he feels about Will knowing his personal fears revealed there. Suddenly John sees that thinking about all this sitting across the table from Will is just as revealing.

“I only read parts. That’s why you’re preoccupied right now. I must say, that I was very tempted to read it all.”

“But you didn’t,” John says weakly. Did he read about the kiss on the cheek? Does Will remember? No need to embarrass each other. Will has enough going on in his life without adding complications.

“Actually, most of what I read was rather dull.”

John clears his throat and grimaces. It is, he supposes. Most is about what happens at hospital. Often mundane entries. Memories of what he did day to day with Mary and Rosie. He suddenly doesn’t understand why he was so worried. It’s not like Will can’t just look at him and decipher what he wants to know.

“You said you haven’t been online much.” John pours himself some coffee and takes a sip. William may make a mess, but he knows how to make a good cuppa.

“It’s been brief. For the most part I was searching for who I was and found that there are hundreds of thousands looking for loved ones in London alone, but nothing about me.”

“Hope you don’t mind, but I asked Gregory Lestrade to do some checking.” John leans on the counter. “Want some toast?”

“Why, thank you, John. To both.”

He hums as he makes toast and slathers on the butter. This feels right having Will here. Like it always should have been this way. He even gets a bit sentimental thinking back on London and his family. He thinks of them a lot. His Mary and little Rosie. He writes about them in his journal too. Now, he has someone else to write about, to include. As he hands Will the toast, he thinks at least he knows where his loved ones are resting. So many were buried in mass graves during the epidemic. He got to hold them, say goodbye, even if it was in quarantine center. So many who were kept away from their loved ones. As a doctor, he was allowed. He’s no longer in London to visit the headstones, but John visits them in his memories, his journal. Will doesn’t even know who he is, or who he should miss. Being a doctor, John cared for so many, yet for some reason he never became ill. No a spot or sniffle. After Mary and Rosie died, he wanted to join them. Thought about it.

“You checked on me last night,” Will says. “Thank you.” The word sounds as if it’s foreign to Will, which makes John a bit sad. It also makes him wonder what he remembered. He wants to help him find out who he is. Make life manageable. He's not sure how he's going to do it, but he thinks he's the one to try.

“Since we have Mike’s car, we can take off later today.”

“I know John, usually you have left by this time and met up with Molly and Mike. Today, you are picking them up in Mike’s car. Might I suggest allowing Mike to drive after picking him up?”

______________

Will sits in the passenger seat and says nothing except hello the whole ride to hospital, his eyes scanning the streets as if he’s never seen them. It’s a bit odd. Molly and Mike politely try to include him, but all they get are grunts and nods. John almost decides to tell them about the run in yesterday with the three thugs to draw Will into the conversation, but doesn’t. The telling would sound a bit boastful. It’s just not him. It’s a tale best told over poker and a few pints. It occurs to John that Will’s been preoccupied since they’d left the flat. What if he’d found something on the internet? He glances over again. Will’s fingers are steepled under his chin and his eyes are no longer tracking the store fronts.

“You okay, mate?” John asks. When he asks again and gets no reply, he becomes concerned that it’s some type of seizure. He did the same yesterday on the way home. He’s about to ask Mike to pull over when Will’s head turns.

“I am fine.”

John’s not so sure. He berates himself for not checking him this morning before they left. He’s Will’s physician, or had he forgotten that? He’s so caught up in having a live body to communicate with that he forgot his duty.

“Let’s give you a quick checkup when we get to hospital.”

“Let’s?” William spits out. “ _Let’s_ not address me in first person plural like some senile patient.”

Molly and Mike steal uncomfortable glances at John.

“Sorry. Habit.”

The rest of the ride is silence broken by a bit of small talk.

“Refreshing not having to sneak in the back,” Will smirks when they’re at front doors.

It’s a relief in tension that reassures John that the day might not be a complete mistake. “Looking forward to a day with Molly?” he asks.

“Actually, I am.” Will sounds genuinely surprised.

Will willingly allows John to examine him before sending him off to Molly for his first day in the morgue.

After two scheduled surgeries and an emergency appendectomy, John crosses over to the to the nurses’ station and props himself against the desk in his usual position. He reads over what’s on his schedule for the afternoon. He hears the familiar gait of Dr. Hooper fast approaching. She’s on a mission and is coming right at him in the face. He expects the worse. Instead she hugs him. John squeaks out in surprise.

“The man is brilliant!” she says, squeezing John harder.

“What?” John blinks and sputters.

“It’s like he was born there! He just reads the charts and knows! I thought he was a nutter, but he’s been right about cause of death each of the first three cases. So do you know what I did? I took him to the drawers and pulled out Mr. Beefcake!”

“You didn’t?!” Nurse Sarah exclaims.

Sister Katherine slips in next to her, spying at us over her spectacles. “It’s nice to know that there’s a place for even the Mr. Rude’s in the world. Fitting it’s in a morgue. No offense, Molly.”

“Yes, well, none taken. I guess. Anyway, Mr. Beefcake has stumped us for weeks! You know how much I hate undetermined cause of death? William Hawkins knew! Immediately!”

“Well, what was it?” Sarah asks breathlessly.

“He said sudden death from past drug use. His heart gave out. He said, 'Studies indicate that past abusers and addicts often experience sudden death even if when no evidence of drugs remain in their system. The stress from past use makes the person susceptible.'” Molly's baritone imitation of Will is fairly terrible, but still draws a smile from John.

“Then it’s still an undetermined death,” Sister Katherine frowns.

“We’d ruled drug use out since tissue samples came back clean, but Will tested his hair! Heavy opiate use until two months ago! Took him all morning what with the old equipment we have here, but now that there's two of us, we have the time.”

“Still not conclusive,” John says. Molly is still bouncing on her toes.

“Nooo, but...he had us pull out the clothes he came in. One look. One look and he knew!“

“We’re waiting Miss Molly, tell us...” Sister Katherine says.

“The man had a list. But it was old, faded, illegible list. Too washed out for most people to make out. In fact, it was a list over a shopping list! That’s why we missed it! We just thought it was a slip of paper. What Will saw immediately was the list beneath. A list of past substances he had used. William said it was 'obvious' that he had experienced a near death episode before this. You know as well as I that addicts often quit only to return to the addiction. He kept this note in case it happened again— either from overdose or, as Will suggested, a sudden death episode.” Molly shrugged. "It's rather sad, really, he wasn't using anymore but his past still got him."

“And I was worried you’d be coming down here to tell us that even the dead couldn’t work with the man,” Sister Katherine says.

“He’s a bit abrasive, but he also has this charm about him, don’t you think?” Molly says, smiling brightly at John.

“I think Dr. Hooper _might_ be in love,” nurse Sarah says.

“You can have him,” says Sister Katherine. “At least that impossible man is not a patient on my floor anymore.”

Molly bounces off. John pushes his hands into his scrub pockets. He spends another few hours on rounds, then goes to the morgue to check on Will and Molly later. He has to laugh. They’re framed in the dingy, dank room, arguing like they’ve known each other for years standing over a body that’s just been brought in, bright lights spilling onto them like actors in a theatre. When they both see John standing in the doorway, they shut it.

“What seems to be the problem?” John asks.

“Another one of the murder victims came in. Same as before. Strangled. Will says a woman did this. Small hands? So sexist! Men have small hands. And no nails.”

“I’m not sexist. Women are equal opportunity murderers.They also trim their nails,” William says. “This man was obviously sedated enough not give much of a fight, yet conscious enough to understand what’s was happening to him. But you already knew that, Doctor Hooper. The murderer is smart and careful.”

“But not careful enough.” Molly smiles at Will despite their disagreement.

“No one is perfect, not even an ingenious serial killer who gets close enough to her victims to administer the sedative. That’s the key. The sedative is not ingested, yet is transferred somehow to the victim. It must be through the skin, but how.”

“The killer didn’t wear gloves?” John asks, thinking that would be the easiest way to administer it.

“No, the handprints on the neck clearly are not that of a gloved hand,” Molly says. “That’s what we’re arguing about. He says the killer had gloves on and removed them to strangle the victim, but there’s no indication anywhere on the body that latex or any other type of glove was used. No residue is left behind.”

“That is not what I said. I said leather gloves.”

“You said that before. Leather gloves wouldn’t work,” Molly says.

“No. I did not state the killer wore the gloves.You see but you do not understand. _His_ leather gloves.The inside of them. Examine his effects.” He points to a large evidence bag. “You will find that the substance used to incapacitate the victim are in his gloves.”

“But that would mean the killer chose the victim beforehand,” Molly says.

John’s a bit taken aback how well they are working together. It’s really a bit of a miracle to him. He also feels a bit giddy from all this brilliance.

“Before _hand_. What an apt choice of words.” Will points to his clothes laid out on a table near them. “It was not one of convenience although it’s meant to look as if it is. A woman, needs an escort home. A man willing to help. They leave together unnoticed. She slips the drug into his glove. Most likely a vial on her person. Says, ‘oh, but you dropped your glove.’ He puts it on. She know exactly where to walk, she’s planned it. She waits. She has him.”

“What about the other victims? It's been too warm to wear gloves for most of the month,” Molly asks.

“Same ruse, different object. She hands them a hanky. They blow their nose, wipe their face, or back of the neck. She has them.” Will snaps his fingers. “She takes them to the same place. Note the shoes. They all have same sawdust mingled on the soles. There's going to be sawdust at  the crime scene.”

John nods. “But why move them?”

“Yes, why? Why do most murderers move their victims?”

“The scene of the crime would give them away,” John says. It’s not the killer’s name, but it’s closer than Lestrade has gotten to the truth. This is the third victim in the last month. Molly holds the gloves up in front of her and Sherlock and gingerly wafts the air toward them. "Ooh, bit eggy?"

Will wrinkles his nose. "Likely whatever was used to speed up absorption of the sedative."

"I'll call the police, they'll need to test these and the other two victims' effects," Molly says.

That evening, Mrs. Hudson brings them scones and tea. They decide against another game of Cluedo. John settles in with some James Ellroy and jumps when Will calls, "John, do you have any other pens?".

John looks up to see Will standing in front of a large map of Cardiff bus routes which he has pinned to the wall and is marking up with a series of lines. He's holding three pens of different colors and apparently needs a fourth. "I thought you said you _liked_ the wallpaper!"

"I do, takes pushpins quite well," Will replies, focused on the map.

John sighs and searches in his desk for another pen. "What's this, then? Something to do with those murders?"

"On our drive to the hospital, I was comparing what I saw out the window to my mental map of Cardiff. We drove through some areas I haven't frequented during the last two months, and there were some differences from what I expected." Will starts to pace. "If I map that variance — what's there now versus what I expect to be there— I can narrow down when my mental map was created. It doesn't tell me who I am, but it might tell me how long I've been here. This map is pre-epidemic, so I'm also marking changes between the map and the city as it is now. Like these bus routes that were cancelled."

"Ah, and where the Army's fenced off this bit here," John points. He tries to make sense of Sherlock's various markings. Some are obvious, but others look like contour lines that don't match the topography of the city. Fractions are penciled in between the lines. "What are these?"

"Probabilities. Based on the number of points I can recollect on a randomly chosen route through given areas I have concluded that I am more familiar with some areas of Cardiff than others. Makes changes from my memories more relevant." Will stops pacing and turns to John. "I'm fairly sure I'm not from here. My mental map of London is much more detailed and my Welsh is...textbook." He looks back at the map. "I really need to get my hands on something more detailed than a bus map. This was the best one Mrs. Hudson had in her side table. You don't have a printer I somehow haven't found yet, do you?" Will looks at him hopefully. "No, of course you don't."

John files away that _of course_ the genius speaks Welsh. John has picked up a few phrases but still has to turn to Mike or another local on the occasions they get a patient who's more comfortable in Welsh than English. "We'll find you a map if you think it'll help."

Will grunts in reply as he marks another spot. John returns to his novel and watches Will out of the corner of his eye. His phone beeps with a text from Lestrade. _No local ID for William - sent on to NSY/Interpol_.  Will is neither pacing or drawing — just standing still, hands stuck into his curls, staring at nothing in particular.

“You did well in the morgue today,” John says, trying to start some discussion, but Will just grunts in return. He’s about ready to give up when Will finally looks up from his map.

“You are fortunate, John.”

He doesn’t feel too fortunate, but considering where Will is coming from, he supposes he is. John thinks that the worst thing for someone who can read and understand people must be to not know your own self. He admits that he’s had plenty of times in his life where he didn’t know what he wanted, but nothing in his life could compare to what Will was going through.

“You know who you are, what you are. I feel as if I’ve never known that about myself, even when I did know my real name. I’ve tried to do the same for myself as I have with others— and I am at a loss. It's like the lights go out and I can stumble forward in the dark but," he huffs a mirthless laugh and flaps a hand at the map, "I can't fit what I know into a coherent picture. The vocabulary says good education, the accent doesn't lapse so that points to a certain social standing, family money." His lip twists up. "I know more about designer clothing than can _possibly_ be practical."

John interrupts, "But you can draw. Maybe you're a designer yourself, or an artist."

"With no internet presence? And I understand the lab equipment in the morgue — unlikely knowledge for a designer."

“So you’re just a posh git? Or...your girlfriend likes clothes?” John pauses "Or boyfriend. Which is fine, by the way.

Will takes a second to answer. "I know it's fine." Will holds up his left hand. “No trace that I ever wore a ring. Doesn't prove anything. I feel as if I have not. Along with the scars I’ve garnered over the last two year, I have ample older ones. One from a gunshot that grazed me here,” he points to his left forearm. “A knife wounds here and here.” He points to his chest and other forearm. Will frowns. “I have thought about the circumstances in which I would acquire such wounds. Most scenarios are not...good ones."

John waits for Will to say more. But he grows quiet and withdraws into that place where he goes. It makes John worry all the more for him.

“How’s your head?” John asks.

“No headache.”

“Just now and today in the car, I noticed you were staring off in space. It’s like you’re not here.”

“It’s a form of meditation. Nothing to be concerned about.”

Stuff that! He’s seen plenty of people meditate. His sister for one. It’s usually in a planned space, but yes, he remembers his sister saying she did it in other places, not always quiet. It’s odd where he does it. Not like he chooses the time or place. Yet, when he snaps out of it, Will is there with John immediately. No fog or confusion. He’s completely there. So it’s not a seizure or meditation as he knows it. He doesn’t take it up further with Will. Yet. He knows if it continues, he’ll have to address it. Again.

“I'm to bed. Let me check you over once more. It’s getting late and both of us have another exciting day tomorrow."

"I'm staying up for a bit, I need to think about something else." Will lets John check his eyes and reflexes.

"You're not alone in this, you know. You made a friend in Molly today. And Lestrade texted earlier, still working on your ID."

Will nods. John pads off to the loo. When he comes back to say goodnight, he sees that Will has curled himself up in a chair with a copy of _Treasure Island_.

“I loved that book as a kid,” John observes, then wants to kick himself. Not a good thing to say to a man who has no childhood memories. Then again, maybe he’s reading it because he has some memory of it. Will seems to ignore him. "Good night, then."

"Good night, John."

John falls asleep almost immediately, but sleeps restlessly. He turns and tosses, dreaming of landmines and automatic weapon fire. It’s just beginning to be light out when John wakes to Will hovering over his bed. He’s staring down at John like a large vulture eyeing its future meal. Unsettling, pale green eyes pierce into him. The squeak John emits is highly undignified, and he attempts to glare his dignity back into existence.

“I think you should be afraid of me,” William whispers, his voice shaking.

“If you decide to wake me like this, I will be,” he says pulling the sheet up over his waist. “I need to get up and go the loo, then after, we can talk about this.”

“Good.” William remains staring down. “You weren’t sleeping well.”

John completes a mental eye roll. “Um, that means you need to _leave_ the room.”

“Very well, John.” He spins around with a dancer’s grace, dressing gown billowing behind him as he retreats. Even half asleep, John can appreciate William.

He’s out of the loo and the git it sitting on the couch folded up as tight as some of the scrub he wears. John takes a seat across from him in his usual plaid wingback, hands clutching the arm cushions. He looks down at his lap, thinking. He’s still half awake, but he conscious of Will’s intense eyes on him. It’s hard to look into their depths and see such pain and confusion.

"Did you sleep at all?"

"John, this is serious."

"I agree, you didn't look nearly this anxious when I went to bed.” John decides he needs to wake up and check on Will regularly at night. If he’s to recover, Will needs rest. “Alright, tell why I should be afraid of you.”

Will rolls his eyes."I slept, and just like I do every few nights, I had a dream that seemed important. It _felt_ more like a memory than a dream, if that counts for anything. It was about me. I think the people in it were my family."

"That's good?"

"I've been holding on to these memories, trying to piece them together, and they're all in _here_ !" Will waves _Treasure Island_ in the air. "Everything I thought I _remembered_ is a scene from this book! I've been working on things like this," he waves at the map, "on the basis that I could tell dream from memory, not realizing that my memory can't tell fiction from reality. Which leaves me with—the only other memories, which are—-" Will halts again.

“Maybe it would be easier to tell about one of them or one that’s reoccurring.”

Will steeples his fingers beneath his chin. “One that comes to me often is of a man with his arms tied to a chair in a locked room. His hands are severed and in his lap. The top of his head is gone. It’s removed clean like a bone saw cut through it. There’s no blood.”

“That is horrific.” John keeps his face stoic.

“You don’t understand. It’s _not_ horrific. Not to me. In the vision, I’m... excited, inspired. I circle around and around the body, inspecting it and the room. The locked room.”

“Well, that is a bit off.” William’s eye twitches. It’s obvious that Will is distressed relating this to him, not excited or inspired.

“You aren’t safe. A serial killer may lurk within these walls.”

John bursts out laughing. “What?! No! You're not a serial killer any more than you are a psychic.” John sucks in a deep breath, lets it whistle out. He knows Will is missing something, and so is he. “What about this as an explanation? You're in some profession where you face death. You don't know that you're not a doctor. All doctors are taught to be detached. Seeing death every day, you have to be. It comes at you in other ways.  Nightmares.”

“Nightmares are nightmares because of the feelings they involve. These aren't nightmares are like yours, John. Mine don’t sound normal. I have others. In them there are no heroic acts or saving lives. I stand and I watch.”

“I’m not a hero, and don’t make me into one.” John barks out. He holds out his left hand. "You figured out my shoulder wound. But did you also notice my intermittent hand tremor?"

Will frowns. "You don't have one. That would be career-ending for a surgeon."

"It's in my medical records from I when got discharged. Intermittent hand tremor. Should have gone away with my shoulder recovering as much as it has. It did, eventually. Hasn't manifested in just over two years. Steady as a rock." He makes a fist, releases it. "What conclusion can you draw from that?"

John's voice is soft, but his jaw is tense, and Will pauses before answering, choosing his words. "It has a psychosomatic component. Like your leg." He looks up. "Oh! I'm sorry, John."

“It's not for you to be sorry about. It took a long time and therapy for me to realize that it wasn’t PTSD that I had— I just missed the war. _I missed it_. Pandora flipped the whole world into chaos, my body had no problem pulling itself together. I got to be a surgeon again, and I lost everything else. So don’t go telling me that you’re a damned murderer because you stand and watch. Sometimes we have no choice but to watch. We can’t help people. Not always. And if they’re already dead, what do we do? So what if a crime scene gets you pumped up! You saw Molly. She’s not any different from you.”

“Do you always keep your gun loaded in your nightstand?” Will asks.

“How do you know that?” John’s head pops up, and he crosses his arms. “You looked. Of course you looked.”

“Of course. But you often carry it with you like yesterday, except when you left it in your locker at hospital, then in your desk. For defense and security.”

"Why are you asking about my gun?"

"You're convinced that I'm not a dangerous person, but you're not sure about yourself," Will explains. "And I believe the reverse to be true. We're at an impasse on that point, but as we're talking about dangerous people, protection seemed like a logical follow-on."

John sees a chance to press his point. “You didn’t take it from my locker.” It’s an observation that John wants to have Will acknowledge. While Will understands other’s motives, he tends to ignore his own.

“I’d no need for a gun. I’d rather use my wits, and I’m not sure of my skills in its use, which leads me to believe I am not skilled. You, on the other hand, are an excellent marksman. I doubt I’ll be needing to improve anytime soon as long as you are with me.”

John relaxes his arms from his chest and sets them back down on the armrests. That was encouraging. At least he’s suggesting that he uses brains not brawn, and he intends to stay with John here. Will is still a miserable-looking ball of tension, though. John is more sure than ever that some part of Will's amnesia is psychological. Something is making him afraid of himself, perhaps the same thing that led him to hide for weeks instead of seeking medical care.

"I have no plans to be anywhere but with you. I think this impasse would go better with breakfast, though. Tea?"

"Please."

They prepare tea and toast in silence. It’s almost domestic. So normal. Yet this man who sits across from him who is anything but normal.

As they eat, John asks, "Do you still want the map, then?"

"Yes, I suppose. I don't have direct evidence that my mental map is fictional. It may still provide a clue as to when I was here. Maybe even for what. You’re here running from your past. Is that what I was doing?”

“Or searching...” John suggests. “I wasn’t just running— I was searching. For something new. You could be too.” He’s pleased when Will stops to ponder the possibility.  " _Treasure Island_ , huh? You think that's where you got 'Hawkins' from?"

"It must be. Reading the book last night was very strange. It was like it was about me. But I'm less sure of what I know about myself than I did before. Though it explains the constant dreams of the sea."

“You must have read it over and over as a child. I read _Lord of the Rings_ so many times I thought I lived in Middle Earth. Maybe if I lost my memory I'd think I'm—"

"A hobbit?"

John glares at William's carefully innocent face. " _Aragorn_. Git."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank MrBotanyB for the wallpaper scene! So Sherlock to map it all out. Hope you all like our joint Lord of the Rings jokes at the end. We couldn't help ourselves, I'm afraid!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for coming and reading our latest chapter! We changed a few things up, developed dialogue more.

"I'm not saying you  _ have  _ to slow down," John says to him. "But if you give people time to catch up to that clever brain of yours, things will go easier for you. Bit of patience goes a long way."

"Patience is tiresome," Will says. As they walk to Cardiff Royal Infirmary, they avoid the puddles that still remain from last night’s rain. A fresh, earthy scent carries on the breeze. While there’s a touch of a chill in the air, the sun warms their backs as the walk briskly down Gold Street. Will thrusts his hands in his pockets. John’s cheeks pink up and that, along with the spring in his step, tells Will his new friend will have no need of a cane anytime soon. Will continues his mini-rant with John. “What if there as a button you could push and all the stupidity in the world would simple vanish? Wouldn’t you want to push it?”

John laughs as he watches a sparrow fly by with a scrap of cloth in its beak. “I dunno, I've probably had enough of things vanishing. Life would be pretty boring then, don’t you think?”

“No, I don’t.” Will almost stops, but John keeps up his brisk pace. 

“How about this?” John says, looking back at Will, who catches up with him in three strides. “If I pushed that little red button, then stupidity would simply have a higher benchmark. Those who were once bright are now the stupid ones to geniuses like you. Besides, there are so many forms of intelligence. A person can be rubbish in some areas while brilliant in others.”

Will sees his point. And there are multiple forms of intelligence. John’s common sense is one. His sensible world views and pragmatic conclusions elevates him above common academics. He recalls John’s advise early this morning, and how his points were sound. John gave concrete evidence as to why Will is good. Will wants to believe the evidence too, and that these visions he has are harmless— just innocent residual memories as John calls them. But Will still has doubts. 

Walking to work with John makes him feel better about himself. It’s when other people come into the equation or when he’s alone that doubts resurface. Today, they go in through the back entrance closest to the locker room. Will sits on a bench not far from where John found him. 

“Have a good day,” John says, as he shuts his locker. “I’m off to the canteen. The coffee is terrible, but I need another before I put myself through rounds today. Sister Katherine is on my shift again.”

Will looks up, smiles, then makes his way downstairs glad that he doesn’t have to deal with Sister Katherine. There are those who he deems stupid, and others who are ignorant. Most are just plain dull. The Sister, Molly, John fit none of these categories. He’d rather work with someone who tests him like the Sister, yet isn’t irritating. Like Molly. 

As he approaches the morgue,Molly's raised voice is audible from the far end of the hallway. He's pushing the door open and stops when she makes eye contact and very slightly shakes her head, hiding the gesture by turning to pace across the room. He backs up and the door swings shut silently. The backs of the two police officers talking to Molly are just visible through the window in the door. He steps just out of view to listen.    


“How else would he know to look in the gloves or the shoes?” the female officer says. 

“Right! Like the killer would say, ‘ _ Oh, here’s the evidence _ !’” Molly shoots back. She crosses her arms. She's irritated, but her voice is shaking slightly. He notices she a few other things look a bit different today with Doctor Hooper. A subtle coral lipstick with a hint of mascara. 

“He would if he’s a show off who thinks he’s so much smarter than the rest of us,” says the male officer. 

“Molly, we're arresting him and that's that. We came to inform you as a professional courtesy," the female officer says. “We've all got jobs to do.”

Arrest is what he’s tried to avoid all this time on the street. Ironic that once he’s off it, that they’d come for him. Will thinks about running. He expects John to think he will— after all, that’s what he’s always done before, but this time John might pay the price. He doesn’t want to bring trouble down on him. Or Molly.

Ironically who should come up behind Will at that moment but John Watson. He always a surprise. John nods at Will with concern in his eyes as he hands him his coffee, then storms past William through the door. In his wake, he pushes Will farther back from the door to keep from drawing the officer’s attention. 

“Watson. This isn't your department, not your business,” the male officer says.

“Anderson. It's to do with my patient, so yes my business, actually,” John snarls.

“Thank God, you’re here, John,” Molly says, agitation in her voice. “They want to arrest William!”

“We heard he's living with you,” the female officer says pointing at John. “Where is he? Did he come in with you today?”

“I’ve been trying to talk some sense into these two,” Molly explains. “But they had their minds made up before they even came here. Call Lestrade, he's your friend, he'll listen to reason.”

“He already called me. He’s on his way,” John says, ignoring the officer's question. That explains John’s unscheduled appearance, Will thinks as he sips John's coffee, the execrable coffee mixing with the metal taste of his oncoming adrenaline rush. 

"Your mate Lestrade isn't calling the shots on this case any more," sneers Anderson. "New DI in charge, one who's got  _ ears to the ground _ and isn't afraid to take action."

Will sees the female officer wince very slightly at "ears to the ground"-- does the cliché mean something else? It must — and then stiffen when John scoffs in response. The lipstick smudged on the back of Anderson's collar is the same shade of red she’s wearing.

"Fine way to take action, harassing innocent people," John laughs bitterly. "Mr. Hawkins knows what happened to the victims because the man’s a genius when it comes to forensics, not a murderer. He’s helping you! He’s given you empirical evidence, and this is the thanks you give him?"

“He also supposedly ‘has no memory’ and no past! How convenient for him!” Anderson says, contempt in his voice.

“You just met the man,” the female officer says to John. “I don’t see why you’re even defending him. And if he came here today with you, he should be here by now, unless you tipped him off, Doctor Watson?” She moves toward the door.

"Sergeant Donovan, I thought you were the sensible one. It's Anderson who has all the conspiracy theories," John says, narrowing his eyes. Will can’t listen to this anymore. He bins the coffee and steps through both doors, letting them swing.

"I'm not sure my button isn't a better approach, John."

“Well, look who just stepped in,” Anderson says, “ _ the freak _ .”

John looks over at Will then down at his cell. “Greg says he’s a half hour out.” John turns to William. He reaches out and gives William’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he steps forward, standing between Will and the two officers. A warm flutter ignites inside Will that he doesn’t quite understand. “It will be fine,” John continues, “it’s all a mix up. Just because you’re smarter than them, they think you did it. But there’s also politics at work here. That’s the last victim?” John nods to the man on the slab near them.

“He didn’t run and he could have,” Molly points out.

“To where! The streets again?!” Anderson huffs out. 

“We aren’t being pressured,” Donovan cuts in, addressing Will. “You’re not completely in the clear from Arthur Mostyn’s death. We arrested Lady Margaret, but a lot of people have serious doubts. It was all too convenient how you swept in and solved it all.” 

“These other murders are similar to Mostyn’s! He knows too much not to be the killer. No one can be that smart,” Anderson says.

“Intelligent people are more likely to have their intellect challenged by someone with below average intelligence, because someone of at least average intelligence has the capacity to detect similar or higher levels of intellect,” Will spits back.

John barks out a laugh, but when Anderson pulls out his handcuffs, John transforms into full military mode. Back like a razor, face like iron, he stares daggers into the two officers standing before him, daring them to take a step forward. 

And he’s got the voice of an army captain, pointing at the body on the slab. “Look at the finger imprints on this victim’s neck! Those hands were small.” He grabs William’s hands and holds them up above John’s head. William finds it comforting the way John is so certain, so sure, he’s not the murderer. 

“Do those hands look  _ small _ to you!” Molly says to Donovan. 

Donovan scratches the back of her neck, doubt in her face. “The man does have the hands the size of Goliath’s,” she raises her eyebrow in question, turning to Anderson. 

“No, they may be big, but they’re feminine looking. Look at how tapered and pretty they are.” Anderson crosses his arms and frowns at his partner. 

John actually laughs. 

“Pretty? Inspector Anderson!” Will says. “You make me blush!”

But that’s not why Will flushes. William doesn’t want John to let go. Ever. He knows he should be more concerned about being accused of murder, but all he cares about right now is John Watson’s burning passion to save him and his fingers clutched tight around his wrist. He feels like no one has ever defended him, stood up for him. John Watson cares! He’s pretty sure no one has cared what happened to him before. It makes him want to do right. To care back. To be what John Watson thinks he is. He knows he should want this on his own, but he doesn’t give a damn. He wants it because John Watson thinks it’s right. 

He feels a brief disappointment when John does let go and lets his hands fall limply at his sides. 

“Anyone with eyes in their head can see that his hands and the imprints on the necks don’t match!” says Molly. 

“It’s him. No point in arguing with you. He’s got all of you fooled,” Anderson spits out.

“He doesn’t have anyone fooled,” John says. 

“Dr. Watson, you’re the biggest fool of them all. He’s a killer. Just look at him.”

That’s when William sees there might be truth in those words— not that John’s a fool. Oh, no. But that Will is a killer. The cold anger ripping through him is making his hands tremble. John is  _ not _ a fool!

“This is ridiculous! No! I will not let this happen. Wait for Lestrade! This man just got out of a coma two days ago! He couldn’t have strangled anyone!” John says. “He wasn’t even conscious!”

“I don’t think changing their minds would make the ones they have work any more efficiently,” William says, rolling his eyes as Anderson snaps the handcuffs on. He knows John is wondering why he’s not taking this seriously, and why he’s not that upset. “Besides, they’ll have to release me after the next victim is found.”

“What next victim?” Anderson says. “Did you hear that! He’s admitted he’s killed someone else!”

“No, you idiot,” William says. “The next victim hasn’t been murdered.  _ Yet _ .”

“So you’ve already selected your next victim,” Anderson says as William rolls his eyes again.

“At least wait until Lt. Lestrade gets here,” John says, but they’re already taking Will away.

William didn’t much care. He’s just happy that John believes him. 

Getting questioned at the station proves to be another round of what happened at the hospital but with more insults flying. DI Athelney Jones has had someone search Will's locker and confronts him with drawings of the strangulation victims as evidence of his guilt. Will explains in fairly caustic terms about the autopsy photos freely available in the morgue. Jones is livid when Lestrade is called in to contradict Will's claims and verifies them instead. Will is disappointed that he only sees the beginning of what is shaping up to be a glorious argument as he is escorted to a holding cell.

Being in a cell isn’t that bad. He’s sharing it with a six other men, and it proves an excellent study in human behavior. He’s already guessed their “horrendous” crimes— taking food, loitering, pandering. Only one of them is there because they’ve supposedly killed someone, and it’s him. His experiment ends abruptly after he scares one of the inmates shitless with vignettes of his life. All he did was tell him of the unfortunate and unsavory circumstances which lead him behind bars. He settles down quickly. 

Until… “I know you! You’re the man with the third eye!” one of the men shouts. He’s sitting right next to Will and moves closer, staring into Will’s face. He’s a little guy with watery eyes, runny nose and lips so cracked and chapped they looked like fish scales. William remembers him from the street. “You told O’ Frogface he was going to die, and damned if he didn’t croak over the next day! How about them lottery numbers? I bet you could tell me them! Only nothing about dying.”

“I only make observations from what’s visible to the eye. I do not predict the future,” Will says.

“You predicted that bad storm when the sky was almost clear!” fish scales says. “Rained and stormed something fierce just minutes after you told us.”

“It was simple, as I explained to all of you then, when smoke spirals downwards, it means that a low-pressure system is directly over head.” 

“What about them numbers?” he says. He inches closer, then pulls out a knife and puts it to Will’s throat. “Give em, now.”

Will remains unruffled, raising an eyebrow. “Security here is so lackadaisical,” Will says to the man sitting across the cell from them. “Not surprising that a police search did not reveal a weapon on your person. The police here are idiots!”

“Right you are!” says fish-scale lips, hand shaking at Will’s throat. In one easy motion, Will’s large hands take hold of the man’s wrist and pull the knife from his throat.

“George, haven’t ya learned anythin’?” says the old and gnarled American sitting across the cell that Will just spoken to.  His pale blue eyes shimmer with a wisdom that William recognized the moment he saw them. “There’s nothin’ to win after an apocalypse. Nothin’ will bring back the dead. You think money will bring back yer happiness?”

It’s a sad truth that the others in the cell with them seem to agree. Except George, who looks forlornly at the knife in his lap. “Alls I wanted was them numbers,” George pleads. “You could still give ‘em to me.” 

“Is there even a lottery?” Will asks.

“A lottery for fools, maybe,” says old man with the keen eyes. “George, leave the queer alone. He can’t help ya.” 

Since the old man’s words weren’t meant as an insult, Will is not offended by the term queer. It’s more like a statement of fact. William’s heard so much worse. 

“Name’s Winston,” the old guy says, leaning forward shaking William’s hand. 

“Name’s William.” 

After a time and some shared stories, William nods off. He feels unusually safe for being in jail. When Anderson shows his ugly maw clanging on the bars, he wakes with a start, unsure at first how long he’s been asleep, but he realizes it’s only been a few hours. Winston gives Anderson a bitter look and spits at him. He likes Winston even more than before. 

“Another victim strangled near the Mill. Pains me to let you out, but Dr. Watson and Dr. Bellin are raising hell with Lestrade.”

“Seems ya have friends on the outside,” says Winston.

“Seems I do,” William says. 

He follows Anderson out of the cell and up to a room where Lestrade, Donovan, and John are deep in discussion. 

“A woman murdered him,” John says. “William’s correct.”

“How could a woman overpower and strangle a man like Sir Holland?” Sally Donovan says.

“You’ll find this man has a sedative in his system,” William interrupts. “As did the others. He was incapacitated, then strangled.  _ You _ could have strangled him in that condition.”

“And so could you,” Donovan says, huffing as she nods to William.

“But he didn’t. He was locked in your cell,” John says, turning his back both Anderson and Donovan. 

“Thank you for getting me released,” William says. 

“You don’t look too bad,” John says.

“Sorry you had to stay the night in lock-up,” Lestrade says. 

“It was not a waste. The prisoners turned out to be smarter than their keepers for the most part. Some were quite knowledgeable regarding what’s going on in your streets. There was a man in the cell with me. I would like him released. His crime was he took a loaf of bread because he was starving. You will release him. Immediately.”

Sally Donovan laughs and slaps down the folder she’s holding on the desk in front of her. “Or what?”

“Or I will not help you find your murderer or help you solve any cold cases.”

“We don’t need your help!” Anderson says, hands in tight fists at his side.

Lestrade scratches the back of his neck. “Right. We can do that. What’s his name?”

“Martin Winston.”

“It’s getting dark,” John says to Lestrade. William admires John’s subtle redirections. He must had been an effective army captain. 

Lestrade takes a deep breath. “Yes, and I’ll drive you both home. The things I do! And shut it, Anderson. Make sure that Martin Winston is released in the morning. And, Donovan, get me the files to some of our cold cases!”

“Thanks, Greg,” John says, following behind him out of the station. “I’m making some of my famous stir fry. You’re welcome to join us.” 

Greg smiles. “I could eat some of your stir fry. A meal for a ride. Sounds like a deal. John’s an excellent cook,” he says to Will. “He can make a proper Sunday roast as well.” William looks at Lestrade with new eyes. He’s a man alone, no different that so many who lost his family, but he’s made a life for himself. His life could be as empty as his— emptier. He knows what he’s lost. Wife, daughters. But he has some family left. A son whose photo graces his desk. William notes how Lestrade holds his head up and takes on a thankless job. On the ride back William listens to Lestrade and John joke comfortably. It’s a back and forth rhythm of camaraderie that William’s not familiar with but longs for. 

Lestrade locks the car on the street and sets the alarm. They go inside, but before they can go up, Mrs. Hudson is out and chatting up Gregory and gives him a care package of scones and clotted cream. 

Lestrade and Will lean on the counter, watching John slice onions, marrows, and carrots to go with the thin strips of pork. John glances up, catches the expression on Lestrade's face and points his knife. "Don't," he says.

"I wasn't," Lestrade smiles back.

"That's right," John replies, shaking his head. Will raises an eyebrow.

Lestrade turns to Will to explain. "There was this case—" 

"Stop," John says, and then rolls his eyes at their expressions. "Fine."

"Fairly soon after we met. Pregnant woman chopped off her boyfriend’s willy and fed it to their rottweiler. It was the day I was coming over for dinner for the first time, and we realized we'd seen both halves of the unhappy couple that very day. John happened to be on shift in A&E when they brought him in, and I made the arrests."

"Crime of passion?" Will asks.

"What you'd expect. He was dicking the neighbor, and she caught him. It was basically all we talked about at dinner, which was a bit much for your other guests," he grins at John. "So when I see him exercising his chopping skills, it comes up."

"And now it's going to be what Will thinks about as well. Thanks, Greg," but John is smirking as well.”

Lestrade laughs. “I hope you are serious about the cold cases, because I’m bringing some with me to you tomorrow. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.”

“At least I won’t be bored,” William says. 

William can’t recall having stir fry, and it smells wonderful. It’s much better conversation than he’s used to having. Actually, any conversation is better than he’s used to having.

“Scotch is in the cupboard, Greg, pour some, will you?” John says. 

But Greg already knows where John keeps it, and William’s not sure how he feels about that.

“This scotch is God awful, John.”

“I know, but it’s better than that crap moonshine we had before. Remember?”

“Worst fucking headache I ever had.” Greg laughs. 

William eyes his tumbler speculatively before he downs it in one gulp. He’s surprised he doesn't choke. So are Greg and John. Greg pours him another two fingers. 

"So you seem a bit more sure of my innocence than Inspector Jones," Will says.

“About that," Greg replies. “I think I might have a line on who you are.”

“Really,” John says, dishing out the stir fry on to the plates. 

“Not what I expected. I sent in your photo, and instead of getting a name back, I got a phone call from some high muckity-muck in the government. Said she worked for a Mycroft Holmes. I’m giving you the heads-up because I expect she’ll be showing up tomorrow at hospital. She didn't tell me anything else, but she definitely knows who you are.”

This time William’s sip of scotch did catch in his throat. He chokes and sputters. John pats him on the back. “You alright?” he asks.

“You said ‘Mycroft’?” He knows that name. It’s in more than one of his rooms in his head. He sits down to the table with Lestrade and John. 

“It’s familiar?” John says hopefully and William nods. “That’s good! Anything else come to you?” William really knows nothing except that he’s seen the name the room’s door. He shakes his head as John turns to Lestrade. 

“Anyone who is anybody in the government knows who Mycroft Holmes is— or I should say was,” Lestrade says. “He went missing almost a year ago.”

“Not a plague casualty then,” John says. 

“No. He was an odd chap,” Lestrade says, taking a bite of stir fry. “Minor functionary in the Transport ministry before the epidemic, and then what with the logistics nightmares during the epidemic, there was a moment he seemed to be running the entire government. Then he's missing and everybody who was rushing to get his sign-off on everything while he was around acted like he'd never been important. I mostly remember trying to deal with the transport ministry after he was gone, and what a bunch of headless chickens they all seemed to be. Getting permits to truck some tactical equipment here from Birmingham became impossible.”

While John and Gregory Lestrade discuss British politics at the table, William goes into the room labeled Mycroft. It’s filled with umbrellas and brief cases and sandcastles and assorted ties, suits, and folders. Lots of folders. Most with the word “Top Secret” stamped in red across the front. When he reaches to try to open them, they crumble in his hands. He’s following a rabbit down a hole that’s taking him no where except to more riddles. 

“William? Will?” John reaches across and puts his hand over his.

“What?” 

“You were miles away— doing that thing again— sitting with your hands steepled under your chin and your eyes shut and darting about behind your lids like you’re trying to find your way through a maze. We were a bit worried.”

He stares at John in disbelief. He’s quite right. He is looking for a way inside himself through dark hallways and passages he doesn’t understand. He’s not sure he wants to explain where he goes to John. It sounds a bit insane. But John’s so close to understanding already, maybe William should explain it to him. Soon.

“You haven’t eaten much,” Lestrade observes. 

“It’s only transport,” William says, pushing the stir fry around.    


“Yes, but it’s the only ‘transport’ you have,” John the doctor says. ‘You need to take care of it. Feed it. Give it rest.”

William lips curl up at those words. He swears that John would scoop up forkfuls and force feed him if necessary. It does smell delicious. He takes another bite to appease him, then another. “This is very good, John.” He didn’t realize he was that hungry until his plate is empty and his third scotch gone. He lifts up the empty tumbler. A small buzz slows his brain.

“And no more scotch,” John says. 

“You sound less like his doctor and more like his husband,” Greg jokes. “What’s this that Mrs. Hudson said? Something about you two sharing a room?”

“What? No! We have separate bedrooms,” John says.

“Not any of my business. Live and let live,” Lestrade says. “I’m not one to judge anyone for being lonely, or doing what they need to do to feel close to someone.”

John stares down at his plate. There's an awkward silence that Will feels it's his job to break. At first, he doesn’t know how to answer. He feels distressed. He’s thought about this already. Certainly, he finds John Watson attractive, but he has no idea about his personal proclivities. He knows the essence of seduction. So he must have some experience. Sex is a mystery yet to be solved.

“I don’t find women particularly attractive, but not many men either,” William blurts out. He feels himself blushing a bit, recalling that it was only a few days ago when he thought of ways in which he might seduce John Watson. That John might seduce him? His pulse quickened at the thought.

“Many men. But  _ some _ men.” Greg winks.

“Greg, stop,” John says. He’s blushing. William thinks it’s attractive.

“Hey,” Greg says, leaning across the table to John. “I'm just saying we all need somebody, so — so it's fine if you — wouldn’t kick him out of bed from eating crackers,” he stumbles to the end of his speech, clearly feeling the Scotch.

“Why would I ever eat crackers in bed?” William says. John laughs so hard he almost falls off his chair. 

“I do have a few suggestions for you,” William says, looking to change the topic of conversation. “After being on the streets, I’ve observed a few ways in which your department could make the streets safer without being so heavy handed.” 

William walks over and rips off a sheet from one of his sketch pads. 

“A list? Well…” Greg scans it and nods. “This is actually good. I’ve thought about some of these suggestions myself.”

“I think action is required as opposed to thinking,” Will says.

“You’re right, Will. Action is required.”

John stands. “I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Greg says. 

“How is that a cue?” William says, and another burst of laughter erupts from John and Greg joins in, then pats John on the back goodbye.

“Still on for cards tomorrow night?” Greg asks.

“Ready to clean you out, you mean?”

“William, you up for a few games?”

Cards? Poker or whatever, he’s certain it can’t be too complicated. After Greg leaves, William turns still stands staring at the door. The best way to solve a mystery is to address it. John is a caretaker who always sees the big picture. He will help. 

“John, why does Lestrade want me to play cards and enter into a romantic relationship with you? John, stop laughing! This is not funny.”

“Sorry. It's really quite funny when you put it that way. First things first: Greg has tried to hook me up with Molly, then Sally Donovan of all people! It's his way of avoiding his own loneliness . Please ignore him like I do, or tell him you don't want to be fixed up with anyone. Or, you know, tell him...what you want."

Will feels his earlier distress returning. "I don't know if I’m gay or bisexual or asexual. It's just one more  _ basic _ fact about myself that I can't resolve."

"Okay. How do you feel when you look at men?” John asks, brushing tears from his eyes.

“Some are attractive...I suppose.” He almost says that John is, but stops short. Instead he asks, “How do you feel when  _ you _ look at men?”

“If you’re asking me if I’m bisexual, the answer is yes. Although every serious relationship I’ve ever been in has been with a woman.” He wipes his face again. “On to poker, which is probably the more pertinent question at the moment. I can teach you the basics, or you can Google them, and I think you'll enjoy it for one important reason."

"What's that?"

"For most hands, you don't have enough information to determine someone else's' cards from probability alone. So you have to play the person, not the cards. You have to  _ observe _ ." He emphasizes the word like Will does. "And of course, you'll need to collect data over multiple hands, so."

"So?"

"A little patience goes a long way," John grins. “That goes for a lot of things in life.” 

Will rolls his eyes, then thinks better of it. “It’s just that it’s so hard to practice patience when there’s so much I don’t understand.” He thinks of the doors that remain locked to him in his mansion. If only he could open them. He’s both apprehensive and eager at what he might find.

"You know, Will, you have enough on your mind. You don’t have to worry about that right now. Maybe with this woman coming around tomorrow, you can get some answers.”

“I’d like that.” And he would. Very much, except he hopes the answers that he gets are ones John can live with.

Before they go off to bed, they each pick a book off the shelf. Sherlock, however, falls asleep without turning one page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not as much angst other than a knife to the neck. But for Will, he knows how to deal with that! It's Lestrade's jokes he doesn't know how to handle!


	6. Chapter 6

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
> 
> <New Entry>
> 
> <Set to Private>
> 
> _ A Bit of Hope _
> 
> Today ended far better than it started. They arrested Will. I have to tell you that I wondered for a few moments there after they’d taken him away if I’d ever see him again. There was a time when that was true. People just disappeared. Thank God Cardiff isn’t the London I left behind although I hear things are better there now. Someday I’d like to go back. I loved London before Pandora. After? Too many bad memories. People detained and separated. Our neighbor Clyde was in France when Pandora broke out. He wasn’t allowed back into the country. No one was. It remained that way for over a year. People could only leave. 
> 
> When people talk about Pandora at all, they talk about people getting sick, but they don't remember how awful all the safety measures were too. Another neighbor Mrs. K, she didn't get sick, but Pandora got her. She had family in Islamabad, a sister and nephews, and she wanted to bring them here but of course she couldn't. The news out of Pakistan at the time was horrible. She aged ten years in a week. Mary got her to come over to ours for an checkup, but there wasn't anything we could do for her, really, it was stress. Before Pandora, she used to watch Rosie for us when Mary & I wanted to pop out for a bite, and after— she just wouldn't leave her flat, wouldn't step away from the radio. She got so bad, one of her grandsons flew to Islamabad to search for the family even though he wouldn't be able to come back until the borders reopened. Which I only found out in a tenants' meeting when some idiot spouted off about "undesirables" and "security" and "hygiene" in the most obviously racist way. He got shouted down but not in a way that really solved anything. Not the sort of battle I'm any good at fighting. 
> 
> Then the news blackout. It set off a real panic. With internet bandwidth down to two or three major switch centers, people couldn’t connect. Radio broadcasts became a bunch of propaganda rubbish. At Barts we got nothing. I’m talking no news, no help, and rarely any supplies. I never thought I’d see a police state in London, but it happened. The day I left was after I saw this older couple killed in the street by some group of crazy fanatics. Just shot each of those poor bastards in the head. Then these same men carried off the bodies like so much garbage and burned them in this pyre. Looking back, I still don’t know who those people were doing the killing— they had generic hazmat suits on and were too organized not to be following someone’s orders. Thing was, after something horrific like that, you’d expect most people to run screaming. Instead people stood and stared. We were in shock, I suppose, until some of us came to our senses and protested vocally. And we got the butt of the gun as a result. I still have the scar. Makes me wonder all the more about what happened to William. What horrors might he have experienced?
> 
> Will, of course, ended up not only getting out of jail but making friends while there. I know he’s bloody brilliant, but the man is more than that. He’s no tin man although he seems to think he has no heart. Funny how Mary said the same. She told me once she never cried. She did though. I don’t know why she lied to me about it. I remember her crying when we were watching  _ Bambi  _ with Rosie. She hid it, but I saw her tears. I also saw her cry the day the first patient came in with a rash. A little blonde girl, about three brought into A&E by her mum, and it was like Mary saw the future in those little girl’s blue eyes. She said we needed to contain it. Pandora didn’t have a name yet, but she didn’t need to know its name to know what it was. 
> 
> Bloody brilliant, my Mary was. Bloody great big heart, too. Will isn’t any different. He tries to hide it just like Mary, but he can’t. I don’t even think that he realizes he’s hiding it.  
> 
> We all hide things because they hurt too damn much. Sometimes I look at my friends when we’re joking and can forget what we lost. Like when Greg and I sit and share a bottle. We can’t talk about what we lost, so we talk about shit that doesn’t matter. And Will? He can’t even remember. Whatever this woman has to tell him tomorrow, it doesn’t matter to me. I don’t care who he was or what he did. What matters is who he is now. 

 

The next morning when John opens his eyes, no William hovers over his bed. Coffee, fried eggs, and toast serve as his wake up call. He stumbles into the kitchen to his new flatmate pacing with a spatula in hand and wearing his blue scrubs with his dressing gown. And he’s humming. 

“Fresh milk! You have milk! You know how long it’s been since I’ve had any?” he says breathlessly holding the glass for John to see. 

“Mrs. Hudson gets it every few weeks. She’s a lady with connections. It’s a treat.”  

Will takes a long swig from the glass, adam’s apple bobbing. Beautiful neck, John thinks. He steps next to Will at the counter. “This looks wonderful.”  

Will continues to hum while saying thank you. It’s a talent, John suspects. No one should be able to do that and wear a white milk stash at the same time. 

“Chopin?” John chuckles and wipes the milk off his upper lip with a hand towel. 

William smiles wide. “You are correct. It’s ‘Nocturne No. 2 in E-flat major.’” John pours his coffee and takes a seat at the table as William serves the eggs and toast. 

“I don’t know much classical music. Just played a bit of clarinet in late primary. I recall learning that piece.” John takes a bite of his buttery toast. As it drips on his plate, he licks his finger. He catches William’s eye as he does. William looks slightly unsettled. _Oh, brilliant, Watson. Will doesn't recall how he learned Chopin and now he's going to obsess over that. Do keep bringing up painful subjects. Well done!_ “Would you like to try playing an instrument? Music's connected to memory. We can probably get our hands on anything you'd like...” Will still looks uncertain. John tries for humor. "Maybe not _anything_. Haven't seen any Taiko drums in Cardiff. And if you're playing electric guitar with the amp turned up to 11, you'll probably have to wait until Mrs. Hudson's out."  

“I have played an instrument. Once I picked up a violin in a house I was rummaging through and played the last of Biber’s Mystery Sonatas, attracting unwanted attention. Rather nasty bunch. Broke the violin. Quite a shame, a nice little Yamaha.” 

“That’s something you don’t have to worry about anymore living in this flat; it’s safe to play. We’ve had not a problem with anyone trying to loot us in months. Mrs. Hudson would enjoy hearing you, I’m sure. We could ask around, find you a violin if you’d like.” 

“I would like that.” He bites the corner off his toast. 

“That was nice yesterday, what you did for that cellmate. It’s not something many would do.” John likes how William’s cheeks flush up a bit, and how he so polite that he covers his mouth as he chews. They eat breakfast in companionable silence. It’s rather nice, John thinks. The sun shines red on William’s curls, illuminating what’s beneath. Something good. Something with a heart.  

“I expect we’ll get a visit from that woman who thinks she might know you today. I’m a bit curious.” The eggs taste perfect. Exactly as he likes them, yolk runny and whites tender. He glances over at William, who stares down at his plate, then raises his eyebrows. He seems as surprised as John that the plate before him is almost clean.  

“I am a bit curious as well,” is all he says in return. 

As they walk to Cardiff Royal they meet up with Mike, then Molly, who practically trips over herself with glee to see Will.  

“We were so worried,” she blurts out. “I’ve seen so many injustices occur since this whole Pandora’s box was opened. You’ve only been with us a few days, and you’re already invaluable! You were right about another murder occurring when you were in custody— but you already know that. Can’t wait for you to take a look and tell us what you think about the new victim Lestrade texted me about.” 

“What’s different about this victim?” John asks. 

“The murderer left a calling card,” she says.  

John immediately regrets his question. Will, curious, picks up the pace, Molly scurries to catch up, and in half a block they're racing to the morgue, John and Mike left behind. 

_______________ 

Will and Molly waltz into the elevator like two old chums at a class reunion. It’s a bit creepy how they both get excited over someone’s demise. He supposes that’s normal given what they do. John watches the door shut, and Will is talking animatedly to Molly. He doesn’t have that same level of excitement for his work. He’s never happy to see someone come in with a lacerated abdomen or go into cardiac arrest. He loves excitement. Just not that kind. 

He almost sticks around to see what the card is all about, but he a scheduled surgery first thing this morning. A coronary bypass. It should be routine, but the patient isn’t. He got advance warning from Beca that this is a VIP, and the family expects to be treated as such. Some Baroness.  

He stops and speaks to the family. While he foresees no complications with the bypass, the few extended family members need reassurances and all of John’s patience. He knows he’s good comforting and easing families since he’s often the go-to doctor when trouble is on the floor, but this family takes more out of John than usual. He knows he’ll be in for more questions after the surgery. 

Although there are no complications, John ends up having to perform a triple bypass. He tired and wants a break, but he knows he must put on his best doctor face. After he ensures that the patient is indeed stable, advises his single resident about post-op and updates the nurses, he visits with the family to tell them what to expect for recovery. Again. He tells them the reasons for the triple bypass. Twice. It takes almost an hour. Then he goes on his rounds.  

He’s curious of what “the calling card” was exactly. He’s dying to go down to the morgue to check on Will and Molly. He’s just left his last patient— a older woman with a bad case of pneumonia— when he hears someone call out, "Doctor Watson?" 

This must be her. One look at her, and he doubts she’s ever smiled a day in her life. He swears it’s like he’s meeting someone who’s intentionally projecting no personality. Stiff hand shake, flat line of lips. Eyes aloof except when they dissect John from head to toe. John feels scruffy, then irritated. He knows that Greg only spoke to her on the phone, but he resents that he didn’t prepare John for this woman.  

"Director Bellin said I'd find you here. You need to be read in on certain facts. We might as well do that before I see him. You're on your way there yourself, it seems?" 

He motions for her to follow him, and at first he leads her down the hall to the elevator, but she won’t have that. She marches to match his gait, just a bit ahead. 

As he looks over at her, he can’t ignore it. The thing is, despite being a blank slate, the woman is completely off the chart, drop-dead gorgeous. She makes her prim business suit sing. Dark, lustrous hair, pouty lips, fine cheekbones, big green eyes with thick lashes.  

They step into the elevator together and the door closes. He pushes the ground floor to the morgue, and looks at the woman. She reaches over and pushes the stop button on the elevator. 

“This is as private a place that I could muster. No cameras here.” 

“None," John replies. 

“You would know. You were the person who had the security installed.” 

“How do you know that?” John shakes his head. “You talked to Director Bellin.” 

“We were already aware of that bit of information before our arrival. The man you call William Hawkins is also living with you and working here.”

“Yes to both. We? Who exactly _is_ we?”  

She seems to ignore his question. “You don't seem surprised at the suggestion that that isn't his real name. Doctor Watson...Captain." A ghost of a smile. "You realize it isn't standard procedure for _the government_ to respond to an ID request by sending me, rather than releasing a name?” 

By the looks of her, John thinks, anything even smelling like standard procedure wouldn't get this woman out of bed. _The government?_ What part? Everything about her whispers things like _direct line to Whitehall_ and _no passport stamp needed_. Things he only saw edges of in the Army.  

"This man is relying on you, at the moment, so your government also needs to rely on you,” she says. “On your discretion. Are we in agreement?" 

John doesn’t like that she knows so much isn’t sharing much in return. "The director also told you I was in the Army? Who are you anyway?"

She looks at him like she’s talking to a child. "My understanding from Lt. Lestrade is that this man has no memory. I need every data point about what he remembers, including what he knows about me, so— I am giving you my name on the understanding that you are not going to introduce me by it. Whether he recalls it or not is relevant to me. Are we in agreement?" She extends a hand.

John takes it, feeling like he doesn't see any other way forward unless he does. "We are, at the moment." 

Her handshake is neither stiff nor friendly, revealing nothing. "Helena Smith. And your erstwhile flatmate is William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” she recites. “Born January 6, 1982 in London. We've been looking for him for two years. The contents of his memory are highly sensitive and relevant to— a number of matters. If he truly has lost his memory, we'll need to restore it. I trust that's what you want for him as well?" 

"Of course," John says, a bit taken aback. 

"From what I understand, he has some level of trust in you, so we'll need you to be supportive of his recovery, especially if that comes to require taking him away from this new identity he's established over the last few weeks." 

This doesn't sound quite right to John. His new identity is who William is. "He's been doing really well, though..." 

"Doctor Watson, I assure you that we are only going to do what's needed for the good of Mr. Holmes and the good of the country. I wouldn't like to have to report that you are an obstacle to either of these endeavors. With our agreement in mind, shall we continue to the morgue?" 

John nods, pressing the button to release the elevator. John leans against the elevator door, and she takes a step closer. 

“Wait, you said his last name is Holmes? As in Mycroft Holmes?” 

“Yes. Sherlock is Mycroft’s younger brother." The doors open and he follows her down the hallway. "We searched for Sherlock, overturning Cardiff looking for him after Pandora. We assumed he’d died and was buried in one of the unmarked graves.” 

“He’s been living on the streets with no memory.” 

“Lt. Lestrade explained how he remained hidden for so long. I suppose we should not be surprised considering his superior intellect paired with his penchant for street people. Sherlock Holmes is an extremely resourceful man. A dangerous one, in some ways.” 

“You keep calling him Sherlock. Didn’t you say his first name is William? That’s the name he’s using now.” 

“He’s always preferred Sherlock.” 

“How long have you worked for Mycroft Holmes?” 

“I appreciate your concern for your patient, but further discussion needs to be with him directly."  As they walk through the doors to the morgue, Molly and William look up from a body. They’ve just begun an autopsy, and Molly is making the Y-shaped incision from both shoulders joining over the sternum and continuing down to the pubic bone.  

They step up. Helena glances at the cadaver. To her credit, she remains unemotional and detached as they continue. They’ve separated the skin and underlying tissues to expose the rib cage and abdominal cavity.  

William pushes the visor from his eyes to top of his head, bonesaw in the other hand. “We need to remove the front of the rib cage to expose the neck and chest organs to select tissues samples from organs for toxicity.” His eyes swing over to John and he nods, then snaps off his gloves. “But since I see you’ve brought someone to see me, it can wait.” 

“Yes, sorry to interrupt,” she says. William shakes her hand. He’s as cool as she is, at least that’s what John believes at first. Then he notes little things like Will’s foot tapping and his left hand clenching his scrubs.  

"You're the woman from London. And I am— ?” Will deadpans the reverse introduction. John catches Molly's smirk. 

“Your name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. You go by Sherlock. Mycroft Holmes is your— ” 

“-- Brother. He is my brother.” Will's face doesn't give away much, but John can tell he's excited to have made the connection, or Will wouldn't be repeating himself.

“Very good, Mr. Holmes,” she says.  

“I prefer Sherlock?” He closes his eyes and tugs his long fingers through his curls. ”That means you must be Anthea.” 

She takes his hand. “I wondered how, or if, you would remember. You would have known me as 'Anthea' a few years back. But for your most recent mission it would have been..." She trails off, scanning Will's features. "Do you recall?" Will frowns and shakes his head. "No matter," she says. "I'm Helena Smith." 

Will looks her over and replies. "No, you're not." 

She blinks, and it’s the first time John sees her actually unsettled. "Very good, Sherlock. 'Helena' is, like 'Anthea' are aliases useful for certain purposes. We'll discuss more later, when we're in private. Which should be soon— I do need to know what you remember about your mission, before you disappeared." 

“M-mission?” he stutters. Like a tree in soggy ground with roots without the strength to hold it upright, William crashes backwards to the floor. Eyes roll back and John tries to catch him, but he’s not near enough to completely stop the fall. The sick thud turns John’s stomach as Will hits the tile floor. He should have seen this coming. Molly rushes next to him. They check William’s vitals. Heart is strong, pulse steady, pupils responsive.  

“What happened?” Anthea...Helena...whoever the Hell she is—asks, kneeling beside them. 

“Can’t be certain,” John says, keeping his thoughts close. He doesn’t trust her, and he wonders about Will too. He’s not sure how much he should divulge to this woman because he’s fairly sure why William is on the floor. It’s not like the episode in the locker room. William shut down, passed out. John’s seen this before— not so much in battle but after the epidemic. People want to forget. The brain has a way of protecting itself from pain too great to withstand. What she asked about his “mission” triggered something— something William doesn’t want to remember. Helena's not buying John’s uncertainty, but she’s not going to argue with the doctor either. A few moments pass and Will blinks slowly, lips and brow press in puzzlement, then he looks at John. It’s when he sees Helena again then his body tenses. It’s clear to John. His memory loss is more than just head trauma.  

Molly wonders aloud if he should go to emergency to get checked over.  

“I’m not staying here,” William barks, struggling to sit up. “My head is fine.”

“Maybe you should,” Molly says. “You’re not in any shape to walk home.” 

“This is nothing! I’ve walked much farther with a knife wound in my side!” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Helena says. “I have a car.” 

“I’d rather walk.” As he stands, he clasps John’s arm for support.  

“I’m sure you would,” she says, “but you’re in no shape to do so. I know your shift isn’t done, or either is Dr. Watson’s, but I talked to Dr. Bellin. She knows you’ll be leaving early today. I’ll drop you both off at your flat.”  

John balks. He isn’t sure about getting inside a car with her, but it’s William who decides to take the ride. The black sedan feels stuffy and uncomfortable to more than John. William squirms next to him. 

“You said I was on a mission,” Will asks. 

“Exactly what was William...Sherlock...doing when he disappeared?” John watches Will closely. He’s still concerned. He’s not sure how much information Will can handle, but he’ll let Will decide for himself how much is too much. 

Helena addresses her answer to Will. “You were trying to stop the outbreak of what we now call Pandora. I don't have most of the details of your mission, but clearly..." She gestures vaguely out the window. "You were unsuccessful in your attempts to stop them. It spread so fast. You disappeared just days before the outbreak. We assumed you were killed trying to stop them, or killed in the outbreak.”  

"I was unsuccessful." Will sounds far away as he says it. "Who does have the details of my mission? Who can confirm that what I recall is real?" 

"Why would that be in question?" she asks. 

“My memory is complicated. Or compromised. I get glimpses of names, places, events, yet it’s detached from my person. I not sure what is my life, and what is not.”

She nods. "Mycroft is the one who sent you, and will be able to confirm details when we locate him. Which we need your help with."

During the conversation, John feels as if he is in as much of a daze as Will. The shock is so profound, he almost feels like he’s been shot again. “What? You’re saying that William was working to prevent the epidemic? You’re saying that the epidemic wasn’t an accident?” 

She nods. "To stop those responsible," Helena says. "And now, to apprehend those responsible." 

“I don’t remember,” he says to her. “I am more sorry than you. Whatever mission I was on, I don’t recall it. It’s frustrating to see names and places like echoes. It’s hollow knowing that I can decipher what I see before me, yet I cannot decipher my past. I had no purchase to hold until a few days ago. Knowing that it's more important than I understood before doesn't get me any closer to doing this. Is there anything else you can tell me?" 

“You are a genius with a brilliant scientific mind. You worked for Scotland Yard as a consulting detective. You solved unsolvable cases. And when your brother asked you to come to the aid of your country, you did so.”

“But was I a good person?” 

“You referred to yourself as a sociopath. There is more. But this isn’t the time or place.” 

"How are you proposing we proceed?" Will asks.

“I have a few personal items for you that might help you remember. I had my assistant drop them at where you’re residing. And we have some locations where we know you reported from before you disappeared. Maybe returning there will jog your memory." She turns to John. "Doctor Watson, I'll need you to take charge of some of Sherlock's personal possessions for the moment while he and I review mission-specific information." 

Before John can formulate a protest, the car has pulled up to the flat and the driver has opened his door. Helena and Sherlock drive away, leaving John dumped out on the pavement along with several boxes and his shattered thoughts. 

No wonder the man can’t remember! To have the weight of stopping a world-wide epidemic on your shoulders? An epidemic that’s man-made! What would someone do who was faced with such a task and failed? If it was John, he would want to forget! He shook his head. Will. He’d blame himself. John blames himself for a lot less. John recalls the helplessness he felt unable to save men in war, to save those during Pandora. To save his own wife and child. What John wants to know is how William or Sherlock or who ever he was, was supposed to save the world? Was it even his choice or was it foisted upon him? 

Mrs. Hudson meets him at the door. 

“Dear! Some men were here with boxes for a Sherlock Holmes. I see you’ve found them...” 

“These would be Will’s things.”

“I thought as much. Sherlock fits him better, don't you think?” 

John doesn't know what to think. But, yes, he does. He doesn't like Helena! He doesn't like how smoothly she gave him a fake name or how easily she told them the fate of the world rested on Will’s shoulders. If Will wasn't so good at reading people, John would probably still think that was her real name not some alias. She’s not to be trusted. Although he feels he can’t protect William if she represents what’s left the British government, he’ll be damned if he’ll let her haul William off against his will. He’s worried what this woman’s intentions are and what she’s telling him right now. Will needs allies. He stumbles upstairs and decides to call Beca. 

"Director's Office." 

"Yeah, Hi, Beth, it's --"

"Oh hi, John, she's in, hang on a mo." 

Beca comes on loud, as usual. "John! How was your triple bypass? Good, I hope! Family's considering a donation to the community services fund.” She hesitates. “Why are you calling from home?" 

John tries to remember the details of this morning's surgery. "Fine. Fine, yeah. Beca, this Helena person— " 

"The one here about your memory case and my new morgue attendant? Good to have help, yeah?" 

"She had a lot of things to say about Will. A lot of things to say about a lot of things. Do we— I mean, did you check her credentials? Do we know she's really with the government?" 

"Why do you ask?" Beca is serious. "What specifically did she say to make you question this?" 

John thinks. He supposes that if Will— Sherlock— was on a secret mission, it's not unreasonable that the people working with him would have code names. But it sounds too James Bond. Do people really do that? "Well, what she said about— things. I don't know how much I'm free to say, actually. It all seems very Official Secrets Act. It was really, _unsettling_. And Helena isn't even her real name, apparently. She took Will and me in her car, which is why I'm home now, and she took Will off to talk about details that for some reason she can't tell me about..." This is all coming out wrong, it sounds weak even as he says it.  

"John. It's important that you to cooperate with Helena as much as you can." Beca weights every word. "I really think that's the end of this discussion."

"Okay." John says. "Okay. I'll talk to you later." He hangs up. 

As stares down at his cell, he thinks that's really not a response he’d expect from Beca at all. Ever. She's always willing to slag the bureaucrats or spin theories about who's going to benefit from what  peccadillo . It bothers John how short she was with him. Beca's always busy, but it's not like her to cut him off like that.

His thoughts wander in increasingly worried circles as he hauls the packages upstairs to the living room where he thinks it’d be best to go through some of the items together with Will.  He's almost done when he hears the door open. "Hello?" he calls. 

"Tomorrow!" he hears Will say loudly over Helena's question, slamming the door of 221B in her face. “Ah, John. Just practicing the sociopath in me.” He stalks past him and over to the map pinned to the wall.

John tries to swallow down his concerns, but something feels stuck in his throat. "Good to have you back," he says.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry the chapter was delayed a day, and thank you for waiting! We made some last minute changes to our story, which we know you'll enjoy (now and down the road). In this chapter we have Will's POV. He's playing violin, cards and John (but only in his mind).

It feels uncomfortably like blind faith, this urge to organize and compare and tabulate bits of information. He’s been so confident that if he follows these processes, a coherent vision of what he has lost will make itself manifest. He stands before the map and methodically flags the points Helena took him to. Most of them fall in the low-probability zones: the empty spaces on his memory map _. Here be dragons,  _ he thinks. _   
_ _   
_ __ Here be Sherlock.

_ Sherlock _ . _ My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. I am a consulting detective.  _ Even if he remembers nothing of being one, he’s shocked he knows what that means. He closes his eyes and touches the map before him. It’s smooth and cool. 

He has followed these processes, and instead of a coherent vision he now has the attentions of a bureaucrat, five large boxes he doesn’t particularly want to open, and a violin case.

And John. A welcome piece of puzzle that Will so wants to have fit. 

He turns from the map to John standing so near. 

John reads him, kneels and opens the case. The hinges timidly squeak, then John picks it up as gently as he would a baby and hands it to Will like a child. Will carefully cradles its neck and plucks it. He frowns in disappointment. It’s not his. How he knows he’s not sure, but as he tucks it under his chin and tunes it, his palms, his fingertips know it’s not his like any mother would know it’s not their child. He draws the bow, and his ears hear, “not mine.” But it’s a violin, and that feels right, so he plays. He wonders how one could miss an action one doesn’t remember? He’ll adopt it and adapt to it. After all, it’s a thing of beauty. His fingers tremble, his lips quiver. He stops to brush a tear from his eye, then he continues. He has fallen in love with it, and it doesn’t matter. It’s his now. All the while John sits, leaning forward, elbows on his knees and hands prompted under his chin, blue eyes filled with earnest pleasure, following the gliding arc of his bow. 

He wants to make John smile, but his own eyes might give away his soul. While sometimes seeing inside someone is too much for him, letting someone else see inside him what he cannot see himself is harder. He closes his eyes as the melody takes him away. He loses track of time, tries to pretend John isn’t there, but he can’t. Every so often he opens them to see John watching, listening his face relaxed, and a small smile on his lips. It comforts him. He thinks the name Sherlock fits him, just as John’s name fits him. Both names are deceptive. One in its simplicity, the other in its complexity. 

He’s playing Haydn’s “Concerto in G” minor as the steps sound on the stairs. His head turns toward them as he’s playing the usual monothematic exposition. “Come in, Inspector,” he says. He continues for another few moments, then stops and turns toward the door. He raises an eyebrow as John’s mouth falls open as the door opens and the Inspector walks in.

“How do you bloody do that?” John asks.

Will sets down the instrument reverently. “It couldn’t be Mrs. Hudson. Lighter tread, and she avoids which boards creak. Your friend Mike’s tread is much heavier. Not Molly, she wouldn’t come alone. That leaves the Inspector—come for cards or a case? A case. No...both.”

“He’s right. ”

“Am I going to be arrested again?” The way Will says it, it's not all in jest. Better, he loves how John hides his smirk behind his hand— he wants that same smile to continue behind his. He could continue snarkily, but John needs more.

“Thought I’d come early to smooth things over. And to talk about a case.”

“Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself; but talent instantly recognizes genius.” 

John sits up and Inspector Lestrade smiles. “I think that’s actually a compliment,” Lestrade says. 

John smiles wider with no hand to hide it this time. “Yeah, it is.”

“It’s not about any of the cold cases or my suggestions to make Cardiff’s streets safe. This is about the serial murders I presume.” Will moves to the couch and flops down, sprawling across it. “But that’s not your case anymore, unless Jones handed it back to you? How does that work? Lost it in a poker game?” He refrains from adding an extra rude comment for John’s sake. 

“With the latest victim we have a task force now, which Jones is leading, sure, but I’m a member. And I think you know something about the case you want to share, so let me know when you’re done with the backtalk.”

Will rolls his eyes. “Did Jones notice that they are all wearing the same shirt?”

“What?” John blinks. Will can see John’s mind working. He’s working it out. 

“This woman chooses her victims based on their fashion sense?” Lestrade laughs. 

Sherlock rolls his eyes again. “You see but you do not observe. Why would these people be wearing the same dress shirt?”

“They shopped at the same store,” Lestrade says. 

“...or work at the same business,” John says. “But it’s not a uniform. The victims I saw were wearing dress shirts.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrow. “While I can think of a few circumstances where workplaces would require men to wear the same dress shirts before the epidemic, it would be unheard of for a business require Italian Barba Napoli shirts now. These were not new shirts. They had be laundered frequently. One would conclude from this they  _ once _ worked for the same business with an eccentric dress code.” 

“So, what’s needed is a bit of leg work to find out what company,” John says to Greg. 

“Former employment would be in tax records, we just haven’t looked there yet.” Greg says. “It’s a good idea. It's so hard to find family to question we haven't gotten far with their histories.”

“Find that connection, and you are closer to the murderer,” Will says.

Greg leans against the table. “Find the crazy boss who wants his employees to dress the same.”

“Or provided the shirts,” John suggests. 

“As you may recall the second victim had an old business card in his wallet. He was a pharmaceutical salesman. I would look at that pharmaceutical company first,” Sherlock suggests. 

“So you’re saying that where they worked has something to do with the why the victims were killed. That the murderer worked there too and had possibly had a grudge against these employees?” John asks.

“It would be wrong to theorise without sufficient data.  Plenty about these murders looks like a serial killer. We  _ might _ have found one reason  these victims are targeted. It would be beneficial to check the latest victims effects.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Lestrade turns to John. “I’ll check that business card too. So you boys ready to lose?”

“No likely! I was going to ask you the same,” John said. “I expect Mrs. Hudson will be bringing up the sandwiches soon.” John shoves his hands into his pockets and turns to Will. “She’s not a bad player herself.”

“She is good,” Lestrade smiles across the table at John, then turns to Will. “And I want to thank you for that list of suggestions. I’ve already put a couple into effect. People are patting me on the back when it’s yours they should be patting.”

Sherlock simply nods, face a mask. 

“How much to you know about poker?” Lestrade asks. 

“John went over the premise briefly, and I googled the rules as he suggested. Why would anyone want to play cards? So predictable.”

“Hmm. John? He’s pretty perceptive. Do you think he can count them?”

“Of course I can count them. What sort of imbecile can’t count cards? How difficult is that?”

“No,” John laughs, “ not like one, two three. He’s wondering if you can recall every card that’s been dealt. Know what’s left in the pile.”

“I don’t see why I couldn’t. Shouldn’t everyone?” Sherlock asks.

“No,” Lestrade says. “You can remember a lot of details most people miss. I’m surprised you didn’t recall the name of the company on that card.”

“I’m not sure why I didn’t. Maybe it’s because I didn’t deem it as important at the time and deleted it.”

“Most people don’t do that,” Lestrade says. “Or at least I wouldn’t say deleted. More like forgot.”

“I don’t like that word, George.”

“His name is Greg,” John says gently. “I guess you deleted that. But I can understand how forgetting is a bit of a sensitive word for you.”

“You’re right,” Greg says. “I’ll forgive you for deleting my name. For now. I’m not sure how much to give you yet when it comes to new cases. How are you doing with those cold cases I gave you?”

Sherlock stands, walks across the room and returns the folders. Lestrade opens one on the top. “This is remarkable! Are all these, solved?”

“Yes, except one. The one on the bottom of the stack was an accidental death.” Sherlock leans forward.  “But you do have another case you’d like to me to look into, but you’re not sure if you don’t trust me. Understandable.”

“No. It’s not Greg. It’s me,” John steps in. “I told him I’m worried about pushing yourself too much, and you’re already up to your ass in another sticky case in the morgue.”

“The case you don’t want me to dig into? Single. Bisexual. Vegetarian. Someone of high station. Six foot two. Thirteen stone. Forty years old. Clean shaven. Black hair, brown eyes. Owns a german shepherd and a persian cat. Appendix removed recently. He came in before I left. He appeared to have died of natural causes, but you suspect that he didn’t from a tip you got. Molly and I shall check more thoroughly tomorrow.”

“How do you know about the tip?” Lestrade asks.

“You’ve reached in to your pocket each time we spoke about that case. I assume that you are touching the slip of paper where you took down what the tipster said.”

John smiles with pride as he says it. 

“You should not be concerned that unraveling these crimes will be me under undue stress,” he says to John. I would much rather keep my mind occupied.” What Will didn’t say was that he would much prefer to have his mind filled with crimes than have it filled with what Helena Smith told him. Spoken or unspoken, she seemed to confirm all his worst fears about himself.

John must notice his distress because he quickly changes the topic. “What’s this Greg said about a list?”

“Some observations I made living on the streets of Cardiff— ways in which the police and local government could change the climate and be more efficient.”

“Such as?”

“The ones I’ve already done are the shift change idea,” Lestrade explains. “Just changing the organization and timing of how each area we police was brilliant. He also suggested opening more canteens for homeless, again the new schedule was key.” Lestrade says. “Opening more will take some time, planning, and frankly money that we’ll need to find somewhere. But offering free housing for those willing to clean up and repair abandoned homes will take more time and enlist other services. We’ll need to make sure the home truly are ownerless. The thing is, his suggestions were much that telling up to enlisting those in the neighborhoods to police. He gave us places to find these people. He gave us tangible schedules.”

“You sound like a socialist! I’m impressed,” John laughs.

“No, I’m a realist,” Will says. “Efficiency saves time for everyone, but more importantly, there’s a correlation between time of day, and when specific crimes happen. If one know that, one can schedule to avoid that problems and to prevent them. As for the housing, people who have a vested interest in their surroundings take care of those surroundings.”

Mrs. Hudson taps on the door and comes in with a tray full of sandwiches she sets down on the counter. “Could one of you be a dear and help with the rest?”

She chivvies Lestrade and John downstairs to fetch her card table and extra chairs, as the sandwiches and crisps take up the rest of the flat surfaces. They’re still setting up when the other two players arrive: Chippie, from next door, and Sal. Jackets are hung, sandwiches are grabbed, and John locks away everyone’s stake for the evening in exchange for slightly battered and cheap-looking chips from an empty tea tin. Chippie has contributed a twelve-pack of rather dull lager, and Sal has brought a fresh pack of cards.   
  
Will spends the first few rounds in solid observation mode, watching the patterns of changing probabilities on the table and his observations about the players to wash over him. By wordless agreement, both Lestrade and John are avoiding specifics about Will’s background, and Will is fine with that. Sal and Chippie seem to be comfortable labeling him as John’s New Mate and going no further.   
  
Which isn’t exactly wrong. Will Hawkins — John’s mate, recovering trauma victim, morgue attendant — seems more real than Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective (whatever that means?) self-professed sociopath, the sort of person who is fluent with terms like  _ mission _ and  _ cover identity _ .    
  
Perhaps  _ more real _ is the wrong term. Will observes himself being quiet, the new man in the game, still picking up on the house rules, and thinks about how he is learning to play the part of Will Hawkins. Sherlock Holmes, what little Will knows of him, seems to fit better with the rooms in his head filled of diatoms and drowned men that he walks through. Will Hawkins fits better with the casual talk around the table — currently Mrs. Hudson mildly grousing at Chippie for picking Omaha High-Low now that it’s Chippie’s turn to deal: “Owen, you pick that because you know I never remember the rules!”   
  
Compared to what he knows about himself and his world, neither Will Hawkins nor Sherlock Holmes are clearly more real. Will is, perhaps, a  _ more likely _ person than Sherlock. But perhaps that is because he is presently in Cardiff and not London, and with John Watson and not Helena Smith.   
  
“Mrs. H., you always say that but seems to me you end up with the low hand as often as any of us. Queens are wild, everyone!”  Chippie — who will apparently put up with Mrs. Hudson calling him by his birth name, but humphs when John smirks and asks “Owen” to clarify a rule — deals the hole cards.   
  
Two rounds later — Mrs. Hudson having failed to get either the high or the low hand, but is betting this round (seven-card stud) as if she intends to clean house — Chippie also tries to sneak a look at John’s cards when he returns with drinks.  _ Oh. _   
  
Will glances at John, who smiles, which is distracting. John folds, Lestrade calls Mrs. Hudson’s bet and loses the showdown. Will decides not to say anything for the moment. Now that he’s seen it up close, the game itself seems incredibly dull. The players are what’s getting interesting.   
  
“Will,” Sal says, “nice to meet a new player. Chippie says he saw you move in a few weeks ago? How did you meet John?”   
  
_ I saved him from falling off a roof _ is a fine thing to say in and of itself, but will lead to questions about why they were on the roof in the first place, so Will instead says, “Through the hospital.”   
  
“You work at Cardiff Royal too?”   
  
_ Obviously.  _ Sal’s a bit boring. “Yes, in the morgue.”    
  
“If you want a change of pace, last year or so we’ve been doing staff rotation with your folks. You might find it interesting. Our facilities are better.”   
  
“Sal is an anesthesiologist at University Hospital,” chimes in John. “You might find it interesting as a rotation. Temporarily. No poaching our staff, Dr. Bassi.” John directs this last comment toward Sal. “You’ve still got plenty of student interns to run ragged.”   
  
“Oh.” It would be interesting to have access to a better-equipped lab. But it would be better if John were also there.   
  
Sal seems a bit taken aback. “Well, don’t feel like it’s something you have to do.”   
  
Will decides on a small experiment. “I’m still pretty new at Cardiff Royal. I’m mostly just getting the hang of things, keeping ears to the ground.”   
  
Sal nods, but Will doesn’t miss how Chippie pauses with a crisp halfway to his mouth before continuing with, “Who’s got the bet?”   
  
“To me,” Will replies. “Raise to ten.” He leans forward, putting his chips down firmly.   
  
As he had hoped, Sal and Lestrade — who have a high probability of holding a pair of jacks and three nines, respectively — call his bet.   
  
“John? Call or raise?”   
  
Will looks up at John to see him gazing intently back at him. They lock eyes for a long moment. Will’s face is an innocent-eyed mask, and John’s is carefully neutral except for a slight narrowing of his eyes. “You don’t have it.”   
  
“You’ll find out one way or the other.”   
  
A slight narrowing of his eyes which, to someone who has studied John’s face, indicates that he’s trying not to smile. “Call.”   
  
Mrs. Hudson folds. Will can’t resist teasing a little. “I have a pair of twos,” waving at his face-up cards.   
  
Lestrade jumps in. “I knew you were bluffing!” 

But Will interrupts. “...and three threes,” he finishes, turning over his hole cards to the groans of all at the table, except for John, who laughs.   
  
Will smirks and sweeps the largest pot of the night toward himself, secretly pleased at John’s laughter.    
  
It’s about an hour later that the game wraps up. Sal has busted and has to get back to Llanishen, and Lestrade is giving him a ride. Will has done reasonably well for himself, though the biggest winner turns out to be Mrs. Hudson, who has quietly accumulated chips over the course of the night. Chippie makes a point of shaking Will’s hand as he says goodnight. “See you around,” he says, meeting Will’s eye.   
  
John walks Mrs. Hudson downstairs and putters around the flat putting things away.  Will starts building a card house.   
  
“So, what did you think?” John says.   
  
“A few things I‘m not sure about.”   
  
“Anything I can help with? You seemed to do pretty well for yourself.”   
  
Will muses. “I’m not exactly sure that you want to hear all of this.”   
  
“I probably do, if they’re my friends.”   
  
“First: Chippie tried to look at your cards at least once. Did you know?”   
  
John is a bit nonplussed, but recovers. “I can’t say I’m happy about that, but if he was really cheating, he did a poor job of it. I’ll ask Mrs. Hudson to say something to him — she’s known him forever.”   
  
“He also noticed the same phrase that Anderson dropped when I was arrested: ears to the ground.”   
  
“What does that mean?” John asks. “Exactly?”   
  
“I have absolutely no idea. And speaking of Mrs. Hudson, she’s got an extremely consistent shuffle and deal technique for someone her age.”   
  
“So my next-door neighbor, who is also my handyman, who is also my friend, is involved in something with Anderson, and Mrs. Hudson’s a cardshark?” John frowns. “That’s interesting. Anything else?”   
  
“Did I actually fool you? Get you to think I was bluffing?”   
  
He smiles. “You were so obviously overacting confidence that I might have thought you were bluffing _ if  _ I hadn’t  _ already  _ seen you act much better. I thought there was a chance you were, but that you probably had a good hand and were just baiting us.”   
  
“So why did you call?”   
  
John shrugs. “Maybe it’s not quite proper poker, but I wanted to back your play.” He looks at the growing card house in the middle of the table. “I didn’t really look at the backs of these before.”   
  
“Bat wings and bird wings,” says Will.   
  
“Angels and devils,” says John. 

“Aren’t you curious what’s inside the boxes?” he continues, tapping the side of the bottom box with his foot. 

“It’s all clothes. Too light to be anything else.” 

John stares down at the boxes, hands in his pockets. “How would clothes help you remember? If I wanted someone to remember, I’d send some type of keepsakes or pictures. Could be there’s photos in here too. Those are light.”

Sherlock is not so sure he wants to look or know what’s inside. He opens the top box and pulls out a purple silk shirt. Flashes of people and places appear that leave him breathless. 

“William?” John is beside him in a second, grasping his biceps lightly.

“I think I saw something.” A closet. His closet. 

“Maybe giving you these was a good idea.” John picks up the top box. “I’ll help you carry these to your room, and you can go through them there. Maybe something else will come to you.”

In his room, Sherlock asks John to stay as he unpacks, but nothing else happens. There are no photos or any other pieces of his past only suits, dress shirts and trousers, shoes, dressing gowns, a pair of worn slippers, socks and a curious hat. Nothing else. He checks his pockets, but nothing is there and nothing else comes to him. It’s all so familiar, yet no memories return. 

It’s a bit of a let down and a bit of a relief. 

“I don’t see why she didn’t send something more personal,” John says.

“She told me I didn’t have much in my apartment in London. That Mycroft had other things stored, but she couldn’t get to those.” Still, Will expected more than this. He’s just putting the last of his socks away when a patient comes to John’s door. It’s a young woman with a broken wrist. John sets it, and Sherlock assists. He splits it the best he can with what he as, and it’s fascinating to watch John interact with her. He knows she’s being abused, and it’s evident that John knows as well. He asks her about safety and if she has somewhere else to go. He’s trying to help her out of her bad situation. He makes a call and finds another place that’s safe for her. John tries to be everyone’s savior, it seems. It makes Sherlock feel like he may not be so special— John is kind to everyone.

After his patient leaves, John asks Sherlock to play for him, and he does. John’s not surprised when Mrs. Hudson wanders up with biscuits and makes tea. It’s a pleasant rest of the evening.

When Sherlock retires to his room, he slips on the old pajamas and dressing gown he’d unpacked from the box. He’s grown fond of this room, the flat, from the start. He doesn’t recall what home, but whatever it is, this is it. 

He spreads himself on the bed and yawns. He thinks about John the healer. He needs a distraction. He picks up  _ Treasure Island  _ and begins to read. He finds pen and paper and starts making lists: details from the book he thought were memories, differences that might be important. There’s the boy in the three-piece suit, and the guide’s face. But there’s something else that’s right on the edge of his mind like a torn strip of paper used for a bookmark. He closes his eye and goes into his rooms and takes this same book from a shelf. He pulls the bookmark and the writing on it is smudged and illegible. But it’s his own. Why can’t he remember what he wrote to himself? Then in a panic he sees by pulling out the bookmark, he’s lost his place.

He wakes somewhere dark. He can’t see anything except right above him and can’t move very much, but when he hears voices he realizes he shouldn’t move at all or he’ll be found. He recognizes some: Dr. Bellin, George Lestrade. There’s another voice, dark and plum with icy undertones, that’s familiar, but he can’t place it. He can only hear every third word, but it’s enough to know that they’re plotting against him, him and everyone he cares about. He’s panicking, pinioned between the hammer of his heart and the thrum of that dark icy voice when a shadow moves next to him. He realizes with despair that he’s been found! He’s discovered, he’s — “It’s all right,” whispers the shadow.   
  
It’s John. He can’t see John, but he can feel him curled up next to him. John’s knee pressed against his in the dark. “It’s all right,” John repeats, fingers curling around his arm.  Will curls toward the sound of John’s breath, nosing against his collarbone. Will can’t barely see his hands or John’s face, but he can feel John’s breath against his neck, his heart beat through his own chest. Will feels his cock thicken, and John’s as hard as the boards against his back. He feels naked. John is his and he is John’s. As John slips one of his legs between his, Will gasps and grinds against him. “It’s all right,” John says again, embracing him. Which is not true, they’ll be found any second now but Will believes him, wants it to be true but then there are lights and shouting and John is gone and 

Will wakes up wanting, the book plastered to his face.

One more piece of data. Not exactly what he wanted.

He finds the list he started again last night and writes down "apple barrel."  

———————————————--

There’s a beauty to the way the chair scrapes as John pulls himself closer to the table. Will’s grown used to 221b in the few days he’s been here. The filtered light from the kitchen window makes a halo of John’s fine hairs on his arms. Sherlock picks up a piece of toast and takes a bite before sitting down himself next to John. There’s other reasons why he likes the way John looks in the morning. He’s rumpled and imperfectly perfect with his old gray short-sleeved dressing gown that covers a faded blue t-shirt. The shirt rides up a bit on his belly when he reaches for another slice of toast. It’s unusually distracting. It’s been almost three days since he moved in with him. Over that time, he’s gotten more and more accustomed to his mannerisms, like how he licks the butter from between his fingers after he finishes his toast, and how he rolls his eyes when ever Will reaches for more sugar for his coffee or tea.

“You’re wearing scrubs.” John comments. He spins this coffee mug around with the palms of his hands on the table before taking a sip. Just another habit Will enjoys watching.

“Of course.”

“Since you got your new clothes, you’ve been wearing those.”

“None of them were new.”

John laughed. “So you realized you were committing fashion crime wearing last year’s suit?”

“More like three years. But I’d rather wear these to hospital today. I am going to be cutting into a cadaver. Rather messy at times. It splatters, you know.” 

“True.” John reaches behind him and scratches his back, hiking up his shirt more. As he does, a dream from the night before returns to him. The heat of him burns. Sherlock heart slams into his chest, and he tears his eyes from John. He swallows back the turmoil inside. This is all so confusing. 

“I know you said to call you Sherlock. Just checking to make sure you want to be called Sherlock. I mean, it fits you.”

“Yes, John. Call me Sherlock.” He dares to look at John again, who meets his eyes. His soul is awash with longing looking into them. Sherlock finds he can’t breathe for a moment. He’s coming apart from that stare. He’s relieved to hear Molly and Mike coming up the stairs. 

“They’re early,” John says.

It’s a surprise. Mike’s got the car today since he wants to do some shopping before. John’s all for that. Sherlock takes the opportunity to excuse himself and think. He still see threats all around him. He can’t stop. Threats are everywhere, and it’s best to expect the worst. He hopes John takes care.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting so late in the day. Beware! High angst inside. :)

It's the first sunny day in a while, and John squints a bit in the glare as he makes his way toward the market square.  Mike and Molly had already filled rucksacks and headed back to Mike’s car, but John wanted to spend a bit more time in the sun, so he told them to go on ahead: the hospital’s not too far a walk from here anyway. He doesn’t need anything in particular as the  Pantry's fairly full at the moment, but he wants to see his neighbors, greet the sellers he's met before. Shopkeepers come into the city buy stock for their local groceries. Usually someone's tagged along with a sheep or a goat to see if the restaurants want to show off something organic and locally grown on their menu. John isn't sure if the lambs look organic, but they do look a bit lost. So do their handlers. 

There's usually something new from the docks: the proper shipping companies don't bother to come to Cardiff, but there's always someone with a boat interested in renting their extra space too for cargo. Usually people, John knows from the news, but whatever someone thinks is going to turn a profit. Trainers and watches and such. He thinks half the kids in the city bought fake iPhones from the same shipment because he's treated more burns from dodgy batteries than he can remember. 

Today, it's big green things. Some kind of melon? A woman gathers a small crowd and hacks at one end of one with a rather too-flashy machete as she turns it — one, two, three, four strikes. She pours out something cloudy into a glass and of course, it's a coconut. John winces inwardly: confused by a coconut, lovely. Definitely not a candidate for bumpkinhood here. He salves his ego with the thought that he hasn't actually seen a coconut in years; not that he'd missed them, or even liked them very much really, but it's irritating to think they were so thoroughly gone from his thoughts that he isn’t able to include them in a list of absent things. The woman with the machete is warming to the rest of her act, sticking a straw that actually has a red twisted stripe into the hole in the coconut and making highly dubious health claims to the crowd. She's asking a ridiculous price for just one. John could buy a week's worth of marrows and root vegetables for that much. A week of marrows is a saddening thought. He buys two. Will — no, Sherlock now, he reminds himself — mentioned over breakfast that he wanted to improve the stomach-contents reference files in the morgue: after he's done experimenting,  he thinks, they can eat the other one.

There's still time to get tea from the tea stall before he needs to head to work. It's the brother and sister manning it today. They're less efficient than their mum, so the line moves slowly. John's mind drifts, thinking about how Sherlock looked over breakfast, damp with shiny curls and scrubs clinging in a way John didn't realize he was noticing at the time. As he fumbles with his wallet to pay for his tea, the handles of the plastic bags holding the coconuts slip onto his wrist and tangle around each other. He's trying to get himself untangled when he hears a warm, "Doctor Watson! Hello!" and looks up. Bother. He has no idea who she is, but she clearly knows him, smiling as she picks her way through the crowd.

He hadn't thought of himself as someone who forgets a pretty woman, but it turns out he has. A pretty woman's name and the existence of coconuts? Banner bloody day for the memory banks. Why can't he remember her? He can hear a smirking Will — Sherlock —  in his head:  _ "What do you observe, John?" _ Okay. He’ll play Sherlock. 

So, this woman...

Blazer and skirt, not flashy. Trainers. Hose. Walking to work; probably not the hospital, Dr. Bellin's office staff are business casual at best, so probably she was a patient, not a colleague.  _ "What else?" _ She's carrying the sort of posh nappy bag that might be mistaken for a large purse. It looks a little worn, so possibly it's actually serving as a large purse. Maybe he delivered her baby?

"I wanted to say good morning. Lovely day, isn't it?" Her makeup matches her clothes— clean, conservative, no flash— and neither quite match her obvious Welsh inflection. Not the sort of conservative office job to require a posh accent. Not that that tells him much. Or the purse.

"Good Morning!" John ventures. "Yes, great to see the sun."  _ Yes, Watson, talking about the weather will determine whether she's  _ British _ , and  _ that  _ will help you remember. _ God, he's useless. He shakes his head and tries to untwist the bags from his wrist, which have somehow gotten rather tight, while not dropping his tea.

She walks with him as he leaves the market through the thinning crowd. "I'm glad I caught you—  I did want to ask you something."

Definitely a patient, then. "Of course."

"Or rather, I want to ask your flatmate something, and I want you to put me in touch with him."

The hell? "I'm sorry. How do we know each other?"

"We haven't met before." She smiles at him. He sees that she has a hand inside her purse. Fuck.

"I'm sorry, but..." She's got the drop on him, and the gun in his waistband is useless with his hands full. He makes to throw the tea at her, but his arm is caught by a large man who was much closer behind him than he realized. The large man glares down at him from under heavy eyebrows.

"Doctor, we're just talking," the woman, who is clearly a murderer and probably not a patient, says. "No need for a scene." She looks over John's shoulder and nods briefly. He glances around Eyebrows to see another tall man with a hand inside his jacket. Damn. "Come on, don't want you late for your shift," she says.

He hesitates, but doesn't see a better option at the moment. "What makes you think I'm going to let you anywhere near my flatmate?"

She walks next to him, matching his stride. Mister Glaring Eyebrow takes John’s other side.

"Because I think it's in his best interest as well as mine, and his country's. I just want to talk to him," she replies.

"If you just wanted to talk, you could have found us at work and spared the dramatics."

"I'm avoiding the attention of Sophy Kratides,” she explains. “I hoped you'd understand."

“Who the hell is that?” John asks.

“You and Will Hawkins got into her car yesterday,” she replies. "I suppose I should have expected her to be using another name.”    
  


"I don't know who you are, or how you know what you know, but you need to leave Will alone. Find someone else to bully into helping you." Just what he needs. Another person in Will’s business. Where are these people coming from?

"And Will went for a drive with her after they took you home. You didn't look particularly happy about that, but perhaps I misunderstood. You're comfortable with her having influence over your flatmate, then? Not what I would have expected from you."

If she had said anything else, John would have clammed up, but she's stirred up the doubts he's been trying to keep in check, so he spits out, "Helena's helping Will, and she's with the government, so if you're avoiding her I can't imagine that whatever you want is the sort of thing Will or I should be involved with." 

She's quick to hit back, pouncing on his uncertainty. "You don't really believe — Helena, you said? — though, do you?"

John suppresses a wince at dropping the name. He's focused on his gun, and the giant at his back who doesn't seem to have noticed it. "As I see it, the more relevant point is I don't believe you."

"Come now, Doctor Watson. You've seen yourself that Will has a talent for finding things out. I need him to find something out for me. Nothing he'd be uncomfortable with."

"And not tell Helena."

"Or what ever name she’s going by. I'd make it worth his while."

"Why don't you just tell me what it is you want Will to do."

"Why not let Will make his own decision?"   
  


"Because some people might try to manipulate a man with no memory for their own ends."

"Hmm. Like Sophy? Or Helena, rather? You're awfully protective for someone who’s only known him a few short weeks. What exactly is your connection to the man calling himself Will Hawkins?"

"I'm his doc —” he looks down into his bag and thinks he’d love to hit her over the head with the coconut, when he catches what she’d said. “Calling himself?" he repeats.

"You normally take your work home with you, Doctor? Something special about Will? Not enough danger in your life? Or do all the patients with no memory and pretty eyes get your personal attention?" she sneers.

Yes. John hates this scrubby-trainers nappy-bag definitely-not-a-patient assassin. And her steroid-filled friend. John stops and turns, prevented from poking Uppity Trainers in the chest as both his hands are full. He realizes a moment later that this is probably a wise choice, though he's unable to keep his voice from rising to a near-shout: "I don't have to explain myself to you. Whoever you've been talking to has got it wrong. Will isn't dangerous. Can't say the same about mysterious bints and their henchmen." No way is he telling her Will’s real name although John is pretty sure she already knows it.

She bristles. "Doctors are thin on the ground, these days. Your profession opens a lot of doors, gets you a lot of respect from your neighbors. Special deal from the milkman. Do you think that's enough to make people overlook what you've doing to a mentally compromised patient? You're keeping him in your house. He's working at your hospital under the watchful eye of your friends. He's practically your pet." She bites out the word, slightly pink under her makeup. "If in fact, he's not just shamming to gain your sympathies for his own ends. What's the definitive diagnostic test for retrograde amnesia? Are you so sure that he’s what he appears?"

She's actually rather less intimidating now that she's lost her temper. Her Welsh accent has almost disappeared, he notices. "Right. Maybe I shouldn't be worried about you talking to Will."

She unruffles herself a bit. "You're making the right choice. We'll meet tomorrow at 7 p.m., I'll text —" And John sees that she has both dropped her gaze and shifted her bag. Now or never.

John drops the tea, spins, and draws his gun. While it feels heavy in the wrong hand, the stupid bags are still twisted around his wrist. Still, it's effective enough. 

"Everyone's hands where I can see them, please," John barks out. Looking intensely frustrated, both Eyebrows and the completely incompetent murderous bint comply. 

John backs away a step. "No, I don't think that's going to happen,” John says. “I just mean I shouldn't be worried about you manipulating Will. You're pants at it. If you're trying to get me to play along with your two-bit scheme — having Will find your missing counterfeit handbags or whatever you're on about — threatening me isn't your best approach. I don't think you want to cause a scene this close to the hospital, so your heavy here is going to back off, and I'm going to go start my shift before campus security comes looking for their missing doctor." John’s grin holds little humor. "So. Good Morning!" He backs off around the corner, replacing the gun in his waistband, thankful that the streets are clear with no witnesses to the little altercation.

Once at the hospital, he escapes from the bag handles without cutting himself too badly. 

The air conditioning system is apparently overwhelmed by a single sunny day, so John stashes his tactically-ill-advised coconuts in a fridge in the pathology lab, leaves a perfunctory apology note for Molly, leaves a longer note for Sherlock to come find him ASAP and be wary of women carrying nappy bags, and runs off to his shift, still slightly high on adrenaline. 

Halfway through the morning, he finally finds Molly and Sherlock getting terrible coffee and  talking about blood splatters. He wishes he still had that good tea. Uneventful and sane. He's about to tell Sherlock about his morning with Nappy Bag Lady when a twenty-two year old woman comes rolling down the corridor in the throes of labor. The entire floor hears her arrival as she’s wheeled out of the elevator, down the hall. Hard to miss since she’s screaming, “I’m going to kill that mother fucker if he ever sticks it inside me again!”

He doesn’t have time, the moment he sets foot on the floor controlled chaos begins. “Breech delivery! Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson!” nurses call. “We need help! She’s a 10!”

“I think someone needs you,” Molly laughs. 

“Am I the only bloody doctor on call today? Should have known my five minutes of freedom wouldn’t last. Off to wash up and turn things around.” John tips up his coffee and gulps down the final two bitter swallows and shivers. He rolls his shoulder and turns to them before going out the door. “Assisting, Doctor Hooper?” he asks.

Molly sighs. "The OBs don't usually — "

"Never mind the regular OBs, they're paging me. Come on," John says. "And you," he points at Sherlock. "Wash up, make yourself useful." 

“What?! No! Molly would be a much better assistant.” Sherlock pales three shades. John didn’t think it possible.

Molly puts a hand on his arm and looks curiously intense. “Sherlock. The dead can wait, the baby won't. She follows John, pulling Sherlock by the arm. “I like that name so much better than William. Fits with that snobby sexist attitude. And it’s posh, like you. We can  _ both _ assist.”

“No. Well, yes. I would be useless to you. And I have no interest in seeing...” Sherlock stops, mouth open as the screams begin again.

“Babies? Vaginas? Surgery?” Molly finishes. She’s scrubbing, John’s scrubbing, water dripping into the sink and he checks her charts. Sherlock hesitates, but joins, then slips on clean scrubs.

"Well, surgery would be fine," Sherlock replies, cheering up. John chuckles at the complete change.

“Scrub-a-dub-dub,” John laughs, giving Will a friendly jab in the ribs with his elbow.

“Resorting to nursery rhymes?”

The mother is full term, and she’s never been to doctor, which John notes is not unusual since the world turned crazy. He checks the chart quickly: baby isn’t showing any signs of distress, but its position is complete breech. The baby’s buttocks are pointing downward with the legs folded at the knees and feet near the buttocks. 

“I’d think you’d be curious,” John says.”You’re all interested in the human body and how it functions. You get to see this miracle first hand. And it’s not a frank breech, I’m going to check, but this may end up becoming a c-section.”

They enter the room. While it’s not the surgery the way it used to be before Pandora struck  with the light of a thousand blazing suns, it’s still better than the generator powered surgical lights inside desert tents John operated in years ago. It’s enough to illuminate the bulging baby buttocks popping through the shrieking woman’s vagina. 

Despite the splayed thighs, Will keeps some semblance of composure. “Can’t she at least close her legs?” Sherlock asks. After examining her carefully, John makes the decision.

Three hours, one cesarean section and a healthy baby girl named “Watson” later, they sip more acidic coffee while Sherlock sulks.

“It positively the worst swill I’ve ever had,” he tells John. Sherlock is still obsessing over his disappointment that the baby wasn’t named after him.

Molly laughs. “The best part was when the mother told you that Sherlock wasn’t a girl’s name, and then named her 'Watson'!”

“I fail to see why you both think that is funny.” He frowns. “She could have named her Willy.”

Molly heads back to the morgue — the dead can wait, but apparently not all day — but John tugs Sherlock's sleeve to stop him from following.

"I didn't really give you a choice about helping, but I did want to say thank you," John says. "I don't know if you realize how much your being there helped. And I wanted to tell you what happened this morning."

"It's fine," Sherlock replies, "Doctor Hooper has been quite helpful, and this is one way I could assist her in return."

John smiles. "Of course, you realized."

Sherlock continues, "Partly. As soon as I was in the room, I understood that you'd strong-armed me into assisting not because you lacked assistants, but because the OB nurses objected to Molly's presence. You needed someone who would follow her directions and shame others into doing the same while you focused on the procedure. But I don't understand the nature of the conflict."

"Which side? The nurses' or Molly's?"

"Both. Why are the nurses resistant to Doctor Hooper? She seems fairly unobjectionable, if a bit clingy. And why she would want to antagonize them by being there. Why you would want to antagonize the nurses? Explain."

John searches for the right words. "When Pandora was still a full-blown epidemic— so, more or less up until eight months ago— the morgue took over half the buildings on this block for overflow space. And for the last six months of Pandora, Molly was running it mostly by herself.  I think she's told me there were a team of four originally, and she was the most junior. When the other three got sick, it was just Molly and two untrained part-timers. She's from Cardiff, you know, so I think she handled a lot of bodies of people she knew personally."

"Why would that be relevant?"

"Erm." John is slightly concerned at having to spell this out. "Sometimes she really needs to use her medical training for something that's not working with death."

Sherlock shrugs. "Doctor Hooper does seem prone to sentiment. And the nurses?"

"The nurses—" John hesitates, "are very good at their job. But they're a bit leery of having even a suggestion of death in the birthing rooms, irrational as that sounds. Molly's got other theories. I don't know if there's one simple reason. But unless it's a particularly high-risk birth, I'll ask her to come in with me if I'm called and she's available."

"Why?"

John's jaw sets. "Because Molly's not just my friend, she's a good doctor, and people can't be allowed to — we just all have to stick together."

Sherlock nods, but from the way his eyebrows are knitted, John's not sure he's comfortable with the explanation. He inspects the coffee pot. “When was the last time this was cleaned?” 

"I'm sure I don't know," John replies. "Anyway, this morning —" but he stops when there's a knock on the doorframe. Helena is standing there. John frowns — he didn't hear her approach.

"I need to talk to Sherlock. In private, please, Doctor Watson."

John hesitates over his objection and is cut off by Sherlock. "Here's fine. Doctor Watson has rounds." Sherlock starts to dismantle the coffee maker. The dismissal is clear.  John is particularly grumpy on rounds. 

Molly comes to find him with a fresh cup of coffee. "I'd much prefer having my morgue attendant back, but this is a close second. Taste!"

“It’s a miracle,” John says almost moaning at how good it tastes. What can’t that man do?

“I know! Isn’t it sinful!” Molly gloats. “This is more than just cleaning the pot. He can be my barista any day.”

John imagines Sherlock in a white outfit, all proper, whipping up frothy coffee, those long fingers adding whipping cream. He pulls himself together. "Sherlock's still not in the morgue?"

"No, he's been holed up in the lounge with that Helena Smith person. When I found him he handed me these coffees and wouldn't meet my eyes. I didn't hear what she was saying, but she looked...intense. It can't be good for him to be upset like this."

"I'll talk to him after rounds. Ta, Molly."

"Thanks for the assist today. The mum picked out a photo from the ones Sherlock took, I'm going to post it on the wall later."

John barely hears what she's saying. "Good. Of course. Yes."

John knew that woman, Helena, was trouble from the onset. He wonders who is worse? Helena or the Nappy Bag lady. Clearly Nappy Bag Lady, Helena has yet to pull a gun. And yet. He doesn’t care if Mycroft Holmes used to run the entire free world, it doesn’t give other people the right to come in and give Sherlock a fatal setback. He wants to tell Molly to watch Sherlock carefully, but that might be too much. She already knows he’s fragile. Besides, he doesn’t want to have her thinking there’s something else going on between them. That he’s getting attached. His little run in with the Nappy assassin already shows John’s weakness for tall, handsome men with little memory to be obvious to anyone looking.

He wishes he could trust Helena. He  _ ought  _ to trust her. He certainly defended her to Nappy Bag, who isn't on Helena's side. That she has numerous aliases doesn’t help in the least. None of the other reasons he has for not liking Helena should matter — high-level government officials are probably  _ required  _ to look effortlessly sleek and condescend to everyone. But they do matter, the way she looks at Sherlock matters, and he just doesn't trust her. Trainers read him correctly there.

And he should tell Lestrade, but the whole incident sounds silly when he thinks about it. He never saw a weapon. She never actually said she had one. He was the one who pulled a gun, a fact that he's not particularly keen on sharing with the police. She only used Mr. Eyebrow Muscles to intimidate him except she did sort of suggest that she would — what? Tell people things that are true, basically. Sherlock is his patient, and he's living with him, and working at a job which John found him at the suggestion of Beca Bellin. And while Sherlock is smarter than most people could ever hope to be, he's still recovering and his memory loss clearly still leaves him vulnerable, or John wouldn't be so worried about what Helena is whispering in Sherlock's ear.

And Lord, does he have pretty eyes. 

Lips too. John presses the heels of his hands against his own eyes, trying to block out the uncomfortable feeling that he's been conveniently ignoring his own motives. Damn it all to hell.

He really has to tell Sherlock. If he doesn't, his conscience is going to yell at him that John is a manipulative creep trying to control what Sherlock does. And John has enough on his plate without Jiminy Cricket squeaking in his ear about awkward sexual fantasies John may or may not have had about his flatmate. And he just has to convince Sherlock that if he's going to meet with Trainers, which he shouldn't, he should do it with John's help.

Besides, after Sherlock is done mocking John's feeble attempts at drawing conclusions, he may be able to figure out something about Trainers that got by John. Like who the hell she is. And what she wants. And what was with that accent.

Later, John catches up with Sherlock and Molly in the morgue, and Molly waves him over. "It's just about five, come on."  
As they follow Molly out to the reception area just behind the front entrance, one of the attending obstetricians and two nurse assistants hold several printed pictures of newborns like the one in Molly's hands. A few of the hospital staff stop to watch on their breaks, and Dr. Bellin keeps a back corner, watching.

One of the OBs steps forward. "Ladies and Gentlemen, today we welcomed fourteen—"

"Fifteen," Molly interrupts.

The OB nods. "Fifteen new residents to Cardiff!" Then he dramatically reads off the names as the others post them. Molly adds "Watson" at the end and posts the picture on the large corkboard behind the desk, smiling as if she's the proud parent herself.

Sherlock seems puzzled.

"Let's all wish them happy birthday," says the OB.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY," a few of the staff yell, and there's some scattered applause. The small crowd disperses at the change of the shift.

Molly hugs John, and they head back towards the morgue, Sherlock trailing behind. John lingers back. 

"There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about all day," John starts. “About the nappy-bag assassin.”

Sherlock nods. “I have no doubt it’s a fine story. You tell them well, but I need to talk to you also. I have decided it is not working out.”

“What’s not working out?”

“Our arrangement. Me working here. Living with you.”

“Alright, what did that bloody woman say to you!” 

Sherlock flinches, then catches himself. “She confirmed what I’d already suspected.”

“And?” 

Sherlock looks over at Molly.

“I think I’ll get some more of that excellent coffee,” she says. She’s gotten pretty good at reading them both.

“Tell me what she said. _ Now _ .” John crosses his arms. “Whatever it was, it’s not true.”

Instead of rising to the confrontation, Sherlock is quiet. "I pulled you off that ledge."

"Not something a sociopath would do."

"And because of that, you are determined to make me into a hero."

"I'm not—"

"Yes, John, you are. Every time I want to discuss my doubts about my past, you dismiss them."

"I don't—"

"No doubt you believe your own rationalizations. But you are not in possession of all the facts."

"And she is?" John is trying not to shout. His throat is almost closed up with anxiety.

"She has more of them than you do."

"How do you know she can be trusted, though?"

"Crimes I remember, that I see in the rooms I walk through in my head, she has files on. The official police files, and then the ones from Mycroft's office."

"I don't understand."

"These are murders I remember, because they're murders I committed."

"That's preposterous!" John's shouting now. "All you've shown an interest in is solving murders, not committing them!"

"Apparently when I ran out of interesting murders, I created my own." Sherlock turns away from John, ignoring John’s pacing and the shouting. "Because I was bored."

"But that's nothing like you are now! You are not a psychopath or a sociopath. You are a  _ good  _ person. You just don’t see it. Someone just doesn’t lose their memory then become the bastion of kindness. You are a good person now, and you were good person before this happened.”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I am not kind,” Sherlock says and closes his eyes. “And I have a propensity to get into trouble when bored.”

“So what! A lot of people laugh or make jokes at inappropriate times,” John barks. “I don’t care that you do experiments on stomach acid. Just don’t do it in our sink again, but— ”

"This is not something you can change by yelling at it!" Sherlock shouts back. "You spend a lot of time telling me what kind of person you think I am. Maybe that's who Will Hawkins is, but the evidence says that that's not who Sherlock Holmes was."

"Maybe you're not Sherlock Holmes anymore. Maybe you've changed because of your head injury."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Who I am is someone who can see the history of your life from your face and your leg, but who completely misses the most basic elements of sentiment. Everyone in that room just now took some sort of...meaning from reading out names and pinning up photos. It was obviously the highlight of Doctor Hooper's week. I witnessed the miracle of life today, John, and it left me cold. It was  _ boring _ . I wanted to get back to thinking about murder."

John feels like the air has been squeezed out of his chest. "So what are you going to do?" John feels helpless to convince him. This isn’t the same man, who hours before, wanted a baby girl named after him.

“She offered me work. Investigating crimes.”

“I bet she did. And a place to live too?” Sherlock’s silence tells all. He’s also distressed. 

John swallows. "You're not going to change my mind about you. I don't believe her. There's something else going on. I was accosted by two people this morning who didn't think Helena was to be trusted either. They didn't even think her name was Helena. That's what I've been wanting to tell you — there's something going on that we don't know about." 

“John, I am not so ignorant that I don’t know that she has some sort of ulterior motive. But I'm following the evidence. So much of what she says matches up with what I remember. Things I haven't told you, or anyone. So when she tells me that I prostituted myself to feed multiple drug addictions, or that Mycroft covered up my murders because he needed me to solve puzzles that nobody else could, I'm going to weight that more than you wanting to believe good things about me because of some axiom that 'we all need to stick together.’ You must understand: You are not safe with around me. Mrs. Hudson is not safe. Molly is not safe. I am a dangerous man. This way, I can be of use, and you'll be safe.”

“I agree you’re a dangerous man. But you’re not dangerous in the way you’re thinking. And I don't think you want to do this."

Sherlock is closed off again. "It's already done. Helena's car will pick me up from here. She'll send someone around for my things this evening. Please give my regards to Mrs. Hudson."

"When?" John chokes out.

There's a knock on the doorframe of the morgue. John turns around to see a tall man in a suit. He didn't hear him coming down the hallway. Must be something Helena's people know how to do.

"Goodbye, John." Sherlock says and waits for some sort of reaction. John simply stands there until Sherlock walks past him and out the double doors. John hears them groan as they swing shut.

He doesn't know how much time passes before Molly returns. He’s still braced against the wall.

She clears her throat. "Where’s Sherlock?" she asks. “John? What’s wrong? Wasn’t Sherlock going home with you?”   
  



	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it tis! This chapter find Will (Sherlock) filled with angst and more troubles than he knows how to deal with. So his continued solution? Push John away! Doesn't he know he needs John to help him? Please let him know.

As Sherlock rushes out the front doors of Cardiff Royal, he stumbles on the steps. It’s hard to catch his breath, and he’s light-headed and nauseous. He’s not sure if he’s in serious need of medical treatment, or if it’s just the backlash of his argument with John.  

He puts his head between his legs for a moment to compose himself. He couldn’t be there near John. He knows Helena’s car is waiting for him in the back of the building, but he had to get out and away before he changed his mind. He cuts around the side of the building through the grass and on to the drive that leads to the back parking lot.

The sky spits on him, and he pulls up the collar on his coat. Suddenly he aches for that someone walking next to him. He wants someone to laugh and joke with, but he can’t do that. John’s safer this way— from whatever he is and from whatever Helena is.

This self pity isn’t making him feel better.

He pulls out the cell Beca Bellin provided. It’s a reminder of what he will no longer have. Ironic he’s using it to text Helena. He’s coming around the side of the building along the drive and isn’t surprised to see the black sedan driving slowly behind him.

“Need a ride home?” the woman asks flatly. It’s not who he expects, but she’s exactly as John described. And she could be Helena’s long lost sister. Same taste in clothes. Precisely dressed, fitted suit, expensive trainers. Monotone voice, detached attitude and attachment to cell phones. And the man must be the accomplice John referred to in the note. Eyebrows, was it? The nickname is no misnomer.

“Do I have a choice?” Will says, getting in. His head is pounding, but he knows he’s not about to pass out. Instead, he blinks back the pain.

His phone buzzes, and the woman raises an eyebrow.

“Is that your keeper?” she asks.

It take a second longer than normal to realize she’s referring to John. The headache is slowing him down. It’s a bit not good, as John would say. He reaches in his pocket for his meds, but they’re not there. His cell buzzes again. It’s Helena wondering where he is.  


He’s not ready to let Helena know. Not until he can think this all through clearly. These two must be anxious to speak to him, or maybe they just planned on taking him away.

He decides either way— with these two or with Helena— he’ll be far from John, and John and everyone else will be safe from him and these people who are after him.   

“I wished to speak to you privately,” she says. “This seemed an excellent opportunity.”

She inspects her perfectly manicured pink nails, then looks at him like he’s an insect. Time to put her in her place. “You are the Nappy Bag lady. That’s what Dr. Watson called you.”

“What?!” He’s pleased that it’s the first rise he’s gotten out of her. John would be pleased too.

“It’s the purse,” he says.

“It’s designer. A bit old, but it’s good luck.” She pats it.

“So you’re the dearly departed Anthea. Not claiming your sister? Possible sibling issues?”

She looks puzzled. It could be an act, but Sherlock doesn’t think so. Then she gives a huff. “You’re one to bring up sibling issues.” She sits forward in her seat toward him. “Despite what you’ve been told, I have no siblings.”

“Aww. Someone’s a liar!” Sherlock says, rubbing his forehead. She’s not denying who she is though.

“He said you should call me Ruth.”

“This is getting old— all this cloak and dagger. False names and all that. You must have worked for my brother.”

“Correct. So you do remember him.”

“Bits and pieces.” He refuses to give her much. “What about your sister?”

“As I said before, Sophy Kratides, or Helena or whatever she’s calling herself, is _not_ my sister. I assure you, I am Anthea. I am alive, well and running the British Government, or what’s left of it. I knew Mycroft, your brother as well as any other person alive other than you before you supposedly ‘lost’ your memory. And by the way, drop the whole charade. You know who you are and what you are. Pretending isn’t helping the matters at hand. I’m just sorry that Ms. Kratides found you first.”

Sherlock doesn’t like or trust Helena Smith, but more and more of what she’s told him makes sense. She has her own agenda, but that doesn’t negate her message. John asked have Lestrade check her out thoroughly. She seemed to be who she said she was, and the documentation seemed authentic. Yet there were details that weren’t right about her.

“One of you is lying. And you both want something. What is it that you want?”

“The same thing you want, I hope. I want you to find Mycroft. Dead or alive. We need to know where he is.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. He’s trapped in the backseat with nothing to do except pick at the sleek dark rental car’s seat, which is certain to piss off Anthea. The sky is as grey as his own soul at the moment. He could talk to her. Find out more. Assess her. Deconstruct her. He doesn’t recall anything in his rooms about her at all other than she was an assistant to Mycroft. She is a name with no face, that’s all. The information is either not there, or the room is locked to him.

“You were never a field agent. Most of what you did for Mycroft was set up appointments, get coffee. Take notes. Make his bed.”

She doesn’t become angry, but the driver does.

“Hey!” he says. “No getting personal.”

She ignores him. Immediately Will sees he more than some bodyguard, more than a driver. He is a partner. This man is posing as a strong-armed assistant when instead, he’s an equal. “She never make his bed in any capacity,” he says.

She steals little sidelong glances at Will, but he stares studiously out of the window on his side, in the corner of his eye a small flare of setting sun reflects off gunmetal side of Mr. Eyebrows shades. His own skull feels like it’s about to pop—  he can’t think as clearly as he needs to. The driver is still angry. Interesting how he came to her defense. He realizes now where they’re at. He turns the car and pulls to the front of the 221b.

She takes a deep breath and looks directly at Sherlock. “He said you should call me Ruth.”

“A passphrase? Codeword? How was I intended to answer? Some sort of trick.”

She blinks. “We should go inside.”

Of course she doesn’t know, and he doesn’t want to tell her he’s not going back. He doesn’t want John to know he’d been here. He’s sure John won’t be back at the apartment. There is something inside that he needs. His meds.

Eyebrows grumbles as he opens Anthea’s car door.

“No, we talk here. Not inside.”

She reluctantly gets back into the car.

“I don’t remember you. I don’t remember much. I don’t know why,” he says, honestly. Anthea’s seems to be convinced that he doesn’t remember. “I need something. Some proof that you’re really Anthea.”

“I have a photo of Mycroft.” She already has it handy in her coat pocket and shows him.

“And I have drawings,” Sherlock says. “Either can be acquired. I need you to describe to me something you know about Mycroft that can’t be reduced to photo or simply extracted.”

“You constantly pester him about his weight. It’s a long running joke for you.” She slips closer to him, and Sherlock edges closer to the door.

“If I did tease him to that extent, it’s common knowledge. You need something only a few might know. Someone who knew him well.”

“He’s kind and loves you very much,” she says, and the driver barks out a laugh.

“I wouldn’t say something like that to his face, but it’s true,” he says. “The man only loves one person, and it’s you.”

“Now that I know is a lie. I distinctly remember him pushing me into the lake with I was ten, and saying to me he hoped I drowned.”

“Just because he pushed you into a lake when you were ten doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you,” she says.

“Even if true a person loving one’s own brother is not defining characteristic or distinctive in anyway.”

“For a man like Mycroft it is,” says Lincoln of the Big Eyebrows.

“You need to do better.“

“He carries an umbrella everywhere he goes. He says it’s in case it rains. That’s what he tells everyone. He _says_ he hates getting wet.” She sighs.

He remembers an umbrella. It’s not very extraordinary. But...

“He says he has a phobia about getting wet,” she says, “but there’s really cyanide in a secret compartment in the handle. That and it pulls out into a sword. He thinks he’s Errol Flynn.”

He’s not sure who this Errol Flynn is but that’s more like it! What an exciting way to carry cyanide! His head hurts so much right now, he’d take it...and Sherlock seems to remember something about the sword. He needs more.

“If you’d said he had a pegleg or a talking parrot, I might have believed you.”

Anthea crosses her arms. “He has two legs. No parrot. He does have a mole on his right buttocks.”

“You said you didn’t make his bed,” Sherlock says, leaning into her face and pointing his finger. “So you did have sexual intercourse with my brother!”

The driver sighs and reaches back to grab Sherlock’s finger— most likely in an effort to break it.

“I did not, but I did draw his bath.”

“Well, he most likely does have freckles and moles all over,” Will says. “Just. Like. Me. Want to see? I have a lovely ones on my buttocks and one right on the end of my...”

“Please!” she says. “I’d rather not know.”

“One doesn’t have to be his assistant to know he has a mole on his arse. Any whore would know that…”

That’s all it takes. Relationship confirmed as Eyebrows grabs Sherlock’s shirt and begins to drag him into the front seat.

Anthea stops him. But not in the way Sherlock wanted.  Anthea has her gun out.

“I should shoot you. But I promised your brother I’d keep you safe if I ever found you. Ironic that I do and it’s to find Mycroft.” She nudges it into his temple. “And Dr. Watson, look how you care for him. Not letting us near him. Not going inside. You’re lucky that we need to find your big brother. I guess I won’t blow your brains out here.”

To Sherlock, it’s the most convincing thing she’d said or done since he’s met her.  

His cell is still buzzing as he gets out.

“Until the next time we meet,” she says.

He watches as the sedan pulls aways. Almost everything she said and did tells Will she isn’t who she says she is. He has no memory of her.

Yet. there is something to her story. _Something_. John said that lies are easier to believe with a bit of truth attached. From all that Will recalls, he’s never trusted. At least not until John. He knows he doesn’t trust Helena Smith. He’s not sure about this person calling herself Anthea either. Her veiled threats against John didn’t win Will’s trust at all.

He texts Helena back, says he’s at John’s. She won’t like it, but he doesn’t care.

He checks the time. John shouldn’t be home for another hour, so he has time to go upstairs, get his meds.

He goes in quietly— although he’s sure Mrs. Hudson has already seen him with Anthea in the black sedan. No doubt she’ll tell John when he gets home. He climbs the stairs and opens the door with his key.

His brain is muddled. He can’t think. He needs rest. Time to think about all he’s learned. There’s Mycroft. Could he be alive? He must find out! But he can’t let Helena know. There’s no doubt in his mind that Helena Smith is trying to confuse him. Taint him. It’s working, in fact. He opens the pill bottle and swallows two down, then pockets the rest. He expects Helena to be here quickly.

His mind runs over what Molly told him today in the morgue— Helena told her that she had concerns about Molly working with Sherlock so closely.  She showed Molly the “infamous folder” Molly was shocked. She says she didn’t believe it— that Sherlock is some serial killer. Helena said that Molly’s blind when it comes to Will _._ He knows it’s true. He sees it in Molly’s face.

That’s another reason why he needed to leave.

Molly also told him that Helena wanted to know if he’d confided in her at all about “things.”

Molly told him she asked around after that. She found out that Helena’s been talking to other people, telling them that he’s dangerous. A killer.

That explained the odd looks all afternoon. He can’t live like the look of disgust on people’s faces. It reminds him of something he can’t remember. It’s almost there in his mind. People who hate him. People who are disgusted by him. People who go out of their way to not be near him.

What if John looked at him like that? He decided then to take Helena’s offer and leave.

Helena knew what would happen. She set him up. She intentionally isolated him. It worked.

She did it for her own reasons. Ones he doesn’t trust, but he trusts himself even less.

As Will leaves his key on the table, there’s an ache in his head and his chest.

He reminds himself he’s doing the right thing as he steps down the stairs.

He stands on the sidewalk around the corner waiting for Ms. Smith to come. He closes his eyes and thinks of last night. How the light is faint in the room, but Sherlock could makes out every crease and freckle and pour on John’s face. He’d study the color of John’s eyes forever if he could.

Sherlock’s breath quickens, his jaw drops. How did he ever become so attached so fast? It’s all sentiment. Not love. His hands begin to shake, and he shoves them into his coat.

He’d hurt them all. It doesn’t have to be with a gun or a knife. Just as easily be with hurtful words and deeds. He believes it.

There’s someone wrong with someone who cares more about determining a where a person lives by what’s on a shoe sole than caring that they live in squalor.

John told him not to think of such things.That reading people’s emotions is hard. He said, “Sherlock, you aren’t perfect. Part of me hopes that Helena Smith shows Lestrade her bogus files. Then we can get this behind us.”

His answer was, what if the files aren’t bogus? He’s gone through them over and over. He can find nothing that makes him believe they are not official.

“They are real, but they aren’t about you,” John told him.

What if that killer is waiting asleep inside him waiting to wake up? Molly isn’t safe. John isn’t safe. Who is he, really? He’s right making this choice. He doesn’t want to believe there’s a monster lurking inside him. Yet there are moments, moments he feels as if he is that monster. He can be cruel. Say cruel things.

Then he sees Helena Smith drive up. He steps out and gets in.

“I thought we agreed you wouldn’t come back here,” she says.

“I had to. I needed my meds.” He doesn’t say a word about Anthea. He knows she realizes he’s keeping something from her, but she probably thinks it has to do with John. He holds his head and hopes she thinks it’s just his headache that’s making him off.

 _They say I have a brother named Mycroft_ , Sherlock thinks. _I have memories. A man who looked like him. A boy who looked the same. I lived on an island and Mycroft was Long John Silver. We buried treasure. Looted pantries. I have memories of an incredibly serious and an impossibly smart boy who climbed a garden lattice pretending it was a ship’s mast, but that does not mean that boy was my brother._

“I only have a feeling,” Sherlock whispers.

“Sometimes a feeling is all we have,” she says. “You look like you need to lie down and rest. I’ll get you our safe house soon. I’ll have my driver come back for your things tomorrow.”

“I do need to lie down.” He closes his eyes to avoid questions and only opens them to take note of where they are going. It’s outside of Cardiff. It’s not rural, but it’s still unfamiliar to him. They pull through a large gated home that must have at least twelve bedrooms with a Japanese garden gracing the grounds. There’s a coach house with an adjoining Victorian stables.

They’re met by an older gentleman, who opens his door. Bows politely. Sherlock follows, legs a bit shaky. He doubts nosing around will uncover much about Helena Smith. This place holds no past or real meaning for her. It’s just somewhere to hold out. Still, he will investigate. Observe. He must learn more.

The inside is stately and stiff to him. He’s not impressed. He’s certain that he’s never cared much for fine furniture or fancy furnishings. He likes nice things, but he’s decided that he likes comfortable in a home more.

Like John’s flat. Cozy and simple.   

  



	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this chapter is a week late. Thanks for the messages wondering where we are. Nice to know people are waiting for the chapter and can't wait for more!
> 
> Technology and real life slowed us down, but we're on track AND ready to present to you John's POV-- a man who's worried about his new found friend, Sherlock, and illustrates the lengths he'll go to help him. Two mutual pats on the back for this chapter!

“Why didn’t you go after him?” Molly asks. “You should have followed him.”

"It's  Sherlock’s decision to make, I can't—I shouldn't —  _ make _ him do anything, "John says. "But I almost did. I almost did follow him." 

Molly shakes her head. “Sherlock said he needs answers,” she says. 

“ _ She _ seems to think she has answers,” he says, but doesn’t believe it. Not a word. And he’s as worried as Molly is. More worried, really. Sherlock looked “off” when he left. Headache, John suspects.

Most troubling to John is that Sophy Kratides may even believe she has the answers, and that’s what makes her so convincing and so dangerous. She has some ulterior motive, wanting to manipulate Sherlock to her own ends. He knows that Sherlock is smart enough to see through her, but she’s smart enough to take advantage of Sherlock’s weak spot: He doesn’t believe in himself.

“She went out of her way to make sure he wasn’t welcome,” she says.

That gets John’s attention. He’s known Molly long enough to know when she’s holding something back. She looks as if she’s about to burst. “What do you mean?” he asks pointedly.

“Earlier today she was talking just to Sherlock, but I saw how she'd do it. She'd make sure that there was always someone else overhearing bits. Horrible things. She painted him out to be Jack the Ripper. She had these ‘secret files.’ She printed out things and then  _ leave _ them on the printer. Who does that to a secret file unless they want someone to see it accidentally?" 

Molly gives a choked laugh. “Except you. She was avoiding you. I watched her. She ducked into a patient’s room when she saw you coming down the hall. It would have been funny if it wasn't so awful.”

John crosses his arms in disgust. 

“Same thing with her cell. She had ‘photographic evidence’ on it, and then she left it unlocked at the nurses’ station for all to see. Crime scene photos of victims who were supposedly Sherlock’s.”

“I’ve seen some of the files. Sherlock had them. She’d printed out some of the images. He seemed to think they might be real, but...it was all circumstantial that I could see.”

“You know how the nurses don't always— notice that I'm there," she says. 

_ Notice but not acknowledge _ , John thinks. 

"All they were talking about by the end of the day was what Sherlock was supposedly accused of before in London— that he was some sort of detective who solved crimes, but when he got bored, he took to committing his own crimes, murdering people. The thing is, I knew the name Sherlock Holmes sounded familiar— most likely some of the nurses did too. I remember before the epidemic, there was this detective in London who helped solved this really big serial killer case. That must have been him.”

John remembers something about a detective, but he never knew the name. 

“All the crumbs she dropped during the day had enough facts baked in, that it made the rest seem believable.”

“She tried that with me. It didn’t work.”

“Well, it did with the nurses! The only person it didn’t work on was Sister Katherine. She even asked Miss Smith to leave, but Smith just ignored her. By the time Helena Smith was done, she had most of the staff terrified. No wonder Sherlock left.”

“What did Beca say about this?”John asks and Molly shakes her head again. “I can’t imagine this is what she meant about giving Helena our full cooperation.”

“She must know. Miss Smith seemed to think she had every right to be here.” 

“The woman is just false. I have good reason to believe she’s also going by a false name. Excuse me, I think I’ll go have a chat with Beca,” John says and heads off to her office. 

His feet echo on the cold tile floor as he passes by nurses, patients, and doctors going through motions. That’s all it seems life is. Yes, John is a lonely man, but he’s not the only one. Plenty of lonely people walking the halls of the Royal Infirmary. And Sherlock was one. Sherlock’s being alone hadn’t worked out so well for him in the past. John worries about Sherlock’s head injury. He doesn’t trust this Helena Smith, or whoever she is, to get him medical care. He needs a doctor. He needs someone to remind him to take his meds. He needs someone who cares.

Sherlock had so much on his shoulders. John’s not surprised that saving the world was too much pressure for one man to take. Before he can remember, he needs to come to terms with that conflict. John’s more and more sure now that’s part of the key. To do that, Sherlock needs someone to share his burden with.

Having Sherlock around was never boring (despite what Sherlock might say), and John doesn’t want his own boring life back. Maybe that’s a bit selfish on his part to want Sherlock back because he wants someone to order John to make tea. 

John sighs as he knocks on Beca’s door. Although John doesn’t feel in his soul Sherlock’s moving out is final, John’s heart feels like its been replaced by a stone with his absence. He’s lost a best friend— or a least the nearest thing he’s had to one. He doesn’t look forward to going home to an empty flat.

Beca Bellin calls him in. She shuffling papers and doesn’t look up. “What can I do for you, John?”

“Have you talked to Helena Smith today?”

“Yes,” she says, looking up, “why?”

“She’s convinced William that he’s some kind of psychopath and taken him off somewhere.”

She sets aside what she’s reading. “She what?”

“He left about a half hour ago. Said he was moving out. Molly told me Miss Smith had been busy roaming the halls here, telling all sorts of horror stories about him to the nursing staff.”

She rolls her eyes. “I told her not to bother the staff.”

“You  _ knew _ she was up to trouble.”

“Not to the extent of having him move out! Yes, she showed me her ‘evidence.’ He’s Sherlock Holmes! You were from London. He made the papers at one point although they managed to keep his name out of them. He helped solve more than one case for New Scotland Yard. That whole supposed scandal about Holmes being the killer was dismissed long ago. No evidence.”  

John’s mouth fell open. How did she know all this? And didn’t tell him? 

“Then why did you let her wander the halls spreading conspiracy theories?”

“I didn’t. She said she was leaving but needed to speak to you first.”

“ _ Speak _ to me?! Molly told me Smith was  _ avoiding _ me…”

“I’m sorry, John. I was hoping my talk with her would put an end to her meddling, but you’re telling me he’s quit and...”

“He’s moving out.”

“That’s bad news for both of us. Think of what a mind like that could do as an addition to this staff.” She leans back in her chair. “I was so hoping he’d be more than an assistant to Miss Hooper.” She sighs, then says as an afterthought, “And you’re losing a flatmate.”

“And a friend.”

“I’ll see what I can do. She left me her number and this card.” She flips in between her fingers. “I should have know that she was obviously on a mission when she referred him as her ‘psychopath.’ She talked to me like she owned him.”

“Well, she got him.” 

John’s cell vibrates in his pocket, and he jumps tp pull it out, hoping it’s Sherlock. It’s not. But it is something he could work with. First he needs to go home, think, and plan. And gets some rest.

If he can go to sleep.

———————————--

 

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
> 
> <New Entry>
> 
> <Set to Private>
> 
> _ He’s Gone _
> 
> What I’m about to do makes no sense to me. I’m going to see a woman I don’t trust at all because I have to save Sherlock Holmes, a man I’ve only known a short while. 
> 
> Yet it seems so long, like I’d known him most of my life. His habits, his mannerisms. He’s become a fixture. He’s great company when he’s not brooding or bored. Better company when he’s had a bit of whiskey. 
> 
> The man is brilliant with a biting sarcastic wit and yet he’s haunted with a past he wants desperately to remember. He plays the violin like a concertmaster, and when he wants a favor, he plays his voice like a private striptease. But it’s the taste of danger and excitement he’s added to my life that I’ve fallen for. It’s easy to race behind his unbridled enthusiasm. 
> 
> I want gangly legs and long toes sprawling across on the sofa again. Being here without him is like getting pissed alone. Unsatisfying and oppressive. It makes a body dwell on what they’ve had and lost.
> 
> Just this morning he was laughing about how I cut my toast down the middle. He said I should cut it in triangles. Then he made fun of how I ate the corners first. I told him I like the corners, that’s why I cut my toast down the middle. Personally, I told him, I thought the color of the toast was more important than how I cut it. Lightly toasted. He agreed. “To extra butter!” he said, then we toasted to our toast, tapping our slices together like champagne glasses, then each taking a bite, me from a corner and Sherlock from the end.
> 
> I waited until I got home to text him to ask if he was safe. He answered yes. I told him that I noticed he’d been here at the flat to pick up his meds. I was happy to see he at least thought of that. When he didn’t answer, I texted him to let me know if he needed anything else. He texted back he didn’t.
> 
> That’s what bothers me most. He’s more stubborn than I am. He won’t ask for something he really needs. He only asks for little things like “Hand me my tea” when it’s sitting right next to him, and I’m out in the other room. Or “Get me my pencil” when he’s upstairs, and I’m in the bath. Never anything important like “Save me.”
> 
> He’s a madness. I’ve lost so many people. I’ve got friends I care about around me like Molly and Mike, but I don’t let them get too close. It’s easier that way. I haven’t dated much because I can’t take losing someone I loved again. And then someone comes into my life when I don’t expect it, and I begin to care. Really care.
> 
> I hate loss. You’d think I’d be used to it.
> 
> I was a soldier. I am a doctor. But I am also a man. 
> 
> I can’t lose again. I will save him even if he doesn’t want saving.

————————————--

John knew it was a stupid idea to meet at the train station, but not until he's across the street and sees just how dark the disused building is in the early morning does he realize how particularly vulnerable he's going to be _ if  _ he goes inside. Or  _ when _ he goes inside. At least he's got his gun. And if he doesn't check in with Molly in an hour, she'll know where to send the police.

The main entrance to the terminal is boarded up, as it always is, but she said to meet on the eastbound platform, so there must be a way to get there. He's considering which of the chain-link fences it will be least embarrassing to scramble over, and has just decided it's the one on the south end, when he whips around at a crunch behind him. 

One of the side doors is open. A tall shadow stands on the gravel and gestures curtly for him to go in. It's Eyebrows.

The station has odd bits of detritus, indicating that other people have been living here, though there's not much of a smell, so John assumes it's been a while. Probably too many empty houses to bother with somewhere cold and open like this. 

He passes through the one unlocked double door and sees her at one end of the platform, backlit by the orange of the rising sun edging up from under the platform roof. She's holding herself so stiffly, it makes her look tired.

"You're alone," she says, glancing over his shoulder at Eyebrows. "I said the meeting was for both of you."

"You'll have to make do with one of us," John snaps. "You said we would want to hear what you had to say."

"Sophy Kratides or Helena Smith, as you think of her— she's not who she says she is." She sits down on a wooden bench and pats the seat next to hers. 

"And why should I believe you? I don’t even know who you are," he hesitates before sitting down, leaving at least two feet between them. Eyebrows stands behind her like a sentinel.

"Have you been to her flat?" She asks. John shakes his head. She continues, inching closer to him on the bench. "Easy enough to find, she's leased it in her own name not far from here. And then yesterday, I followed her to where she appears to be  _ actually _ living. An estate far outside the city center." 

She turns her cell phone towards John, showing an image of a sprawling house with a black car pulling up to the front. 

"Notable because the owners are deceased,” she says, “and the house is meant to be vacant while the estate tries to locate heirs. Not what one would expect from someone in 'the government,’ as you say she is."

Since he still doesn’t know if she realizes that Sherlock’s gone with Helena, he decides to keep that bit of information from her. For now. 

"Your text said that you can provide information about Will's past."

"In return for Will's help. Are you making deals for him? You seemed intent on putting me off that idea the last time we spoke."

John tries to swallow down his anger for the moment. "No, but he's not here. And I could offer you my help, if there was a way I could trust you."

"Isn't it rather time to drop the act? It's not about trust. You showed up. And Will didn't." 

"So?" John glares. 

"Unlikely that you're more motivated to discover his past than he is himself. So is it that he doesn't want to see you since he's moved out?" 

At John's wince, she continues in a more gentle tone. "It wasn't just Sophy I saw at the house." She turns her cell phone towards him again. Another picture of the house. In the shadow of the doorway, a figure John would recognize anywhere. "You don't trust me. Fine. But if you trusted Sophy, if you thought she was any good for Will, you wouldn't have agreed to meet me. So tell me what it is you need, and then we'll talk about what I need."

John stares at the picture. It's hard to tell from this distance, but it looks like Sherlock's smoking a cigarette.  _ Not good for his blood pressure. Damn it. _ He looks at her and nods. "Helena — Sophy — has told Will things about himself. I need the truth, some sort of evidence, so I can convince him she's lying."

"What has she said?"

"That his real name is Sherlock Holmes, brother of Mycroft Holmes. That he's a murderer. A dangerous man."

"Ah. Cleverly done," she says. "Mostly true. He is Sherlock, Mycroft's brother." She shakes her head at John's despairing look. "Not a murderer."

"She has evidence. Files from Mycroft's office," John argues. "He'll need more than your word. Whoever you are."

"Anthea."

John scoffs. "Try a name that isn't one of Helena's old cover IDs."

She exhales through her nose, clearly frustrated. "We both need to untangle Sherlock from Sophy, which means we need to untangle Sophy's lies from the truth." She thinks. "Sherlock has a cell phone. Did you get it for him?"

"No? Dr. Bellin gave it to him. What does that have to do with — and what do you want with Sherlock? You said yesterday you needed him to find something."

"I need him to find Mycroft. Does the hospital normally provide cell phones to staff other than doctors?"

"No, she's sort of made hiring Sherlock a personal project. She probably got the hospital to pay for it, being Beca. Why are  _ you _ looking for Mycroft?"

"You'll need to get me the account information. We should be able to track him and listen in, depending on how much attention he's paying to his phone's security settings."

"What?" John jumps up. "I'm not spying on Sherlock. How is that going to get him away from Sophy?"

Anthea rolls her eyes. "It's the closest we can get to spying on Sophy. I want to know what she's saying to him, what she wants him for. She'll be watching her own devices, but she may miss Sherlock's. Surely you want to know where he is, Doctor."

"Can't you tail him? Like you did yesterday, with the photos." John is pacing. He had come to the meeting to try to help Sherlock, somehow, and now he was going to be invading the man's privacy.

"Tell me how that's any better? And no. I don't have the resources."

"Sorry, but no. I mean, yes, I do want to know where he is, but not like that." He backs down the platform. "I can't be a part of this. I have to go."

"John," she calls after him as he's already opened the double doors. "He's my boss. And my friend. And no-one's looking for him." Her voice is strained. He looks back at her. She's not breaking down or crying but she's pale, and somehow this seems like the most honest she's been. 

"Your boss? Mycroft?"

"This is the closest I've gotten to a lead since he went missing. You cannot —" her voice has raised and she stops herself. When she speaks again, it's back to its normal low, smooth cadence, though still intense. "I understand you don't trust me. But everything I have said today has been true, including this: I  _ will  _ follow this lead, and I  _ will _ find a way to get through to Sherlock. If you wish to watch out for his interests, then you would be best advised to stay close and find out whatever it is I'm going to find out."

"With me or without me, eh?"

"It will be easier with you, but yes. I don't feel I have a choice."

John is grim. "What is it you'll need?"

Anthea launches into the details of what she needs to know about the phone account. From what John can gather, it sounds like instead of using government-level surveillance, she's going to use a combination of legitimate tools available to the phone's owner plus what Anthea describes as "basic" hacking (quite above John's head) to turn the phone into a monitoring device. John feels a bit queasy thinking about it, but Anthea accedes to his demand that he be the one monitoring the audio.  He'd rather have Sherlock spied on by a friend.

"So when do you think you can get this from Beca?" she asks as her hand brushes against the bench next to her.

"We're still going to need more than this, you know," John says. "Even if we know more about what she's saying, we'll still need to prove to Sherlock that he's not what Sophy says he is."

Anthea nods distractedly and stands up. "And you need to check in with whoever you said you'd check in with, judging by how you're glancing at the time, and then go to work and send me the information once you have it. I'll give you a five-minute lead."  The dismissal in her tone is clear.

Jogging his way toward Cardiff Royal, John tries to get his head around what he's just agreed to. None of it sounds good. But neither does just letting Sherlock go. And he needs a plan.

____________________

In the end, it's easy. That's what bothers John when he thinks about it later.

He knows Beca. Even if they didn't work out as a couple, they're about as close to being friends as you can be with your manager. She trusts him. She trusted him with planning security for the locker room. So he knows when Beca is going out to lunch, gone for an hour and when Arnie goes to get a cuppa, leaving Beth by herself. 

On the pretext of waiting for Arnie, John chats with Beth for a moment until she gets an unexpected (pre-arranged) call from Molly to help with a (fake) issue with a  _ report that Dr. Bellin needs absolutely right away _ . He can hear Molly's half-panicked voice through the phone: good acting there. He can tell Beth is starting to apologetically ask him to leave so she can lock the outer office, but he also knows that she's a bit intimidated by the doctors. 

"I'll let Arnie know where you are then," he talks over her.

She nods and half-runs off, leaving John alone for what he knows is a solid fifteen minutes. Beca hates changing her computer password, so it's always based on the last book she read. After two tries,  _ How2WinFriends _ gets him in. He finds what he needs quickly. She's ruthlessly organized, and as he expected, Sherlock isn't on the books as an employee. His salary and mobile phone are set up as fake vendors in the laundry accounts. Two photos on his mobile, a moment to close everything and re-lock the computer, and he's back in his seat before Arnie returns. 

It's so easy when people trust you. 

"Did you get what you needed?" Molly whispers later when she finds him grabbing a quick coffee after rounds. "I felt so nervous about lying to Beth. I'm sure she'll realize at some point that Beca doesn't actually need that report until next week. Can you tell me what this is about?"

John is about to reply when his cell buzzes. It's Anthea.  _ Orbit Street 10 min _ . "Molls, I want you to be able to say you didn't know. But it's for Sherlock. And I think it's the right thing to do."

"You think?"

"I have to go. It's all part of the same thing. I'll check in with you." He shows her the text. "Can you tell the duty nurse I got sick? Something nasty and respiratory. I don't want to cough on people in surgery."

She frowns. "This isn't like you. But if you really think this is best for Sherlock — Okay. Probably something gastrointestinal, though, makes the sudden midday onset more likely." She squints at the text alert. "Whose Nappy Bag?"

"Thanks, Molly. GI it is." He hugs her tight, then clutches his stomach and moans fairly convincingly as he stumbles down the hall towards the locker room.

_______________________

Orbit Street is empty, but almost as soon as he turns the corner a car comes up behind him. She must have been watching. The doors open, inviting him inside. “Do get in.” She doesn’t even look up to acknowledge him.

"Were the pictures enough for you to do what you needed?" he asks.

"Give Lincoln your cell so he can download an app to bug it. Don't look at me like that! I'll explain on the way."

"Lincoln" is apparently the name of Eyebrows, who sits squeezed between Anthea and John. He looks cramped, though this doesn't seem to make his glare any worse than usual. John sighs and hands over his phone. "Where are you taking me?" John says.

“We need to talk about Mycroft," she replies. “You've talked to Sherlock enough. What does he say he remembers?”

"Sherlock says Mycroft is a possible construct of his imagination," John replies, watching her reaction. Anthea looks a bit sad.

"I promise he's not."

"He  _ sounds _ like a fictional character,” John says. He recalls Sherlock talking about this just the other evening. “Sherlock's memories of him make him sound like an old codger, a John Steed and Long John Silver— all at the same time— who's somehow fat...except that he doesn't look fat in Sherlock's sketches. But no-one else in his sketchbook is made up, so I think Mycroft must be real. How did he go missing? I heard he worked for the government in some important position. I’m thinking he’s really either a pirate or a spy."

"None of those,” she laughs. “On paper, a specialist in traffic for the Transport Ministry."

"So on paper. Then what did he  _ really _ specialize in?"

"Omniscience." John raises an eyebrow, and she continues. "He's an intelligence analyst of...extraordinary skill. You've seen what Sherlock can do. Consider a mind of that caliber coupled with discipline, charm, and the true desire to be of service. He disappeared on a mission."

"They send analysts on missions?"

"Before Pandora, he wouldn't have been. After...our contact network was shredded, and there were just as many threats to handle, if not more. Mycroft was sent to repair one of the gaps."

"Did he succeed?"

"While he was gone, certain events happened which suggested he'd gained the attention of some people we'd rather not be informed of our operations. And there were other details which required his attention. He was recalled from the field, but it became apparent he was beyond recall." Anthea's face is, if possible, more blank than ever as she says this. “We were hoping he went into deep cover.”

"This sounds too much like James Bond. So a high-up analyst goes missing, and they sent  _ you  _ to look for him?"

"I'm not officially looking for him. At least not on paper. Someone was needed to go to Cardiff, and I volunteered. I hoped I could also find Sherlock, and I was sure he would want Mycroft found, and —"

"Wait, you know what Sherlock was doing here? His mission?" John jumped in. "This could be a chance to figure out who attacked him."

"No," she replied. At John's doubtful look, she snapped, "I never knew the specifics of his mission! I wasn't even sure he was still in Cardiff. I knew he'd been in Cardiff two years ago when Mycroft got a text, murmured that Bute Castle would crumble into the bay before he had an answer, and then sighed the sigh reserved for matters concerning either Sherlock or Boris Johnson. Boris Johnson was in Bermuda that week. And I hadn't had to pay for any repairs to Sherlock's flat since then, so I presumed he hadn't yet returned."

"You said no one is trying to find him? How is that possible?"

"Lincoln and I are searching for him," she gestured to the glaring man behind her. "But as I said, not officially. I would not be surprised if others were looking, unofficially."

"Like the rest of your team? The others…" John stopped at Anthea's look, which was a cross between sheepish and pleased.

"Oh, did that work? I wasn't sure it would. Basic misdirection, I'm afraid. Lincoln and me. Mycroft’s driver and his assistant. And two others, who are loyal to Mycroft and live in Cardiff — the man driving us is one."

John crosses his arms. "Fine, great. So your story is that a secretary, a chauffeur, and a few loyal local employees are running a rogue operation under the nose of SIS while keeping out of sight of the Cardiff authorities? Oh...and you’re _ not  _ in charge of the not-so-free world."

"Don't underestimate secretaries."

"Up until this moment, I didn't realize I had been,” John smiles bitterly. “Though I have to say, I was hoping for something I could use to convince Sherlock that he's not a mad assassin or mass murderer.

Anthea shrugs. "Sherlock won't trust me — does he still trust you, Doctor?" She studies him. His old, leather jacket, his worn trousers. Lincoln hands him back his cell. John glances at it suspiciously.

John hesitates, but despite it all... "I think so,” he says. “I have to believe he does, but to get Sherlock to help you, we first have to get Sherlock to believe in himself,” John says. “There must be someone else who believes in him, someone close who knows him enough to trigger memories. That  _ could _ convince him.”  

Anthea stares at John, a small smile plays on her lips. “I can see why Mr. Holmes has taken to you. Excellent insight. I wish I had thought of it,” she says. 

"What?"

"Sherlock will be much more receptive if you’ve already met her.”

“Met who?”

She ignores him completely. “Check in with whomever you said you would check in with— most likely that Molly person."

He texts Molly that he’s fine, and that he’ll explain everything soon. He was glad he stuffed his glock in the back of his trousers before he left. He may need it. He was also glad Molly hadn’t come. 

“I made an oath to protect him.”

That came out of nowhere. A reassurance? No secretary he ever knew would have to swear to save someone’s life. “Where exactly  _ are  _ you taking me?”

“As you suggested, I need you to speak to the one person who knows Sherlock best.”

“I get that. But that doesn’t answer my question. Why does everything you say sound ominous?” John’s voice drips with sarcasm. “I feel like I’m in a bad B movie. You’re headed to Cardiff Bay. There’s nothing left in Cardiff Bay except all sorts of criminal elements. It’s spooky but...”

“The train station. We’re taking you to London. For Sherlock’s sake and his brother’s. This will work.”

“So, convince Sherlock he’s not a serial killer, find his brother, and maybe stop whoever's murdering men in Italian shirts while we're at it. A lot easier than his last mission. What? Save the world?”

“I hoping this time we’ll be far more successful.”

“And I hoping this visit won’t take too long. I will be missed. At least let me call my landlady let her know why I haven’t returned.”

“I’m sorry Dr. Watson, but I can’t take the chance. You already texted Miss Hooper. That is enough. You may call her later and let her know you are well.”

In the meantime, I need you to tell us a bit more about the people you work with.”

“Why? What does that have to do with any of this?”

“The less you know, the safer you’ll be,” she says.

“What?” John says sharply. “I need to know why. Tell me why this is important, and how you’re going to help Sherlock, then I talk.”

“We’re taking you to the one person who knows more about Sherlock then Sherlock does himself even  _ with _ his memory intact. It’s time for you to meet the parents, or parent, rather? 

We are taking you to see Mummy.”   
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Real life and all, but here it is. Some answers and even more questions for our Sherlock.

Sherlock paces the floor. John hasn’t come home. It’s been well over two hours, and he still hasn’t returned Sherlock’s last text.

This is abominable! He can’t think! Sherlock eyes the thick case file folder with his name written on it, resting on the table where Sophy left it. It’s not proof. Far from it. But there’s enough to make him wonder. But what does it all matter? He’s no longer a possible threat to those he might harm. Why is he worried that John Watson hasn’t answered?

But he is.

He understands there are a number reasons why John might not answer. He may be angry at Sherlock for leaving as he did. He may be out having a pint with Mike, Molly or maybe that pretty nurse. A pang nibbles at Sherlock as he recalls her batting her eyes and slipping her number to John. He shouldn’t feel jealous, but he does. He hisses a sigh. Maybe it’s not a date with a nurse, maybe it’s an emergency, maybe John is covering for another doctor’s shift.

Sherlock touches his cell, then reaches for the folder instead. As he flips over each page, another body is revealed. Each either Sherlock’s victims or Sherlock's cases. Autopsies, evidence, notes, illustrations. And photographs. Unrecognizable bodies surgically cut apart, piece by piece. Dissected.

He can hear John voice saying, “It’s _all_ rubbish!”

Maybe it is.

Or maybe John has come to his senses and realizes that Sherlock _is_ dangerous and that’s why he hadn’t returned his texts. That would be best.

The folder isn’t proof of guilt. Sherlock knows it’s a form of manipulation, but it is proof in one significant respect. It’s proof of who he was, what he was. Sherlock Holmes, detective. He needs to remember that above all else: that Sherlock Holmes may not have his memories, but he has his mind. Although he knows John would argue that’s complete bollocks— a person needs to know _who_ they are, _what_ they are. A person needs to have a _heart_ as well as a _mind_.

Sherlock is not so sure. John believed in him. None of what Sophy said about the horrors of his past did John believe. At least he didn’t before Sherlock left.

Yet Sherlock texts again. And again.

His fingers are about to tap out another when a knock comes to his door. A light tap. Sophy.

“I have the cure,” her voices lilts from behind the door.

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “Anything to save me from your incessant anecdotes.”

“Ah, Sherlock. Ever awake. Ever pacing. Ever bored,” she says, swinging the door open.

“This place is drab, dull, and the company equally so,” he says darkly, eyeing the two new folders she holds at her side.

“I need a bit of help. A mission for you. It’s simple, but not without danger.” She hands him one of the folders, but as Sherlock reaches out and grasps it, she doesn’t let go. “It’s outlined here. Read it. Thoroughly.”

“I always read thoroughly.”

“Before I give you this, I need to know you are keeping an open mind about what you are about to read. The other folder is more about your past. It thought you might be...interested.”

He knows she’s saying this and withholding the file to pique his interest. It’s working. Too well. What bothers him more is that she’s asking a sociopath to keep an open mind. It’s laughable.  

“I promise nothing.”

She sighs and lets go. He flips open the folder about his past, her eyes on him as he reads, studying him, waiting for a reaction. Disgust? Anger? She’ll get neither.

“What do you expect me to say?” he asks. He’s surprised his voice is so detached, but maybe not so surprised.

She gives him the iciest smile. Not for the first time, looking at Sophy Kratides, he thinks she’s a bit touched.

“This would mean that the only way to save the world was to unleash Pandora. How did you get this information?” _And is it real?_ he wants to add. “It implies that I didn’t just fail to stop Pandora— that I _let_ it happen. What do you want me to do with this?” he remains unemotional. He doesn’t understand his reaction. Shouldn’t he be upset?

“Innocent people died,” she pushes on. “I know you don’t care about that, but you would care that it affected your game. That is what you live for, isn’t it? The game?”

It’s like a blinding light goes off inside his head. Pain shoots through his skull, but he keeps himself passionless, stiff, and blank. “The game,” he repeats.

“Weren’t you playing a game with that man Moriarty at the time this all happened? He became another casualty. But his death left plenty of opportunity.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t remember any game or any one named Moriarty. I do know this folder contains nothing of interest to me. It does nothing to cure my boredom or return my memory. In fact, I’m more bored after reading _this_.” He throws the folder on the desk, frustrated.

She smirks at him.

He falls back onto the bed. “I don’t work for you,” he says and dismisses her as he rolls over and turns his back to her. She sets the other folder on the desk before she leaves.

—————————

He takes his meds not long after Sophy's little visit. He _knew_ the name when she said it. _Moriarty_. He felt excited. He felt regret. He felt unsettled. More unsettled than he was regarding his connection to Pandora.

He leafs through the second folder. It’s a hodgepodge of seemingly random documents. She’s rationing out his past in folders and snapshots. She spoons it out to him when it’s most advantageous to show him. This mission of hers is tied together with Sherlock’s or she would not have left that second folder. Why? _Moriarty_.

It’s what the folders don’t contain that he targets his attention upon: An operation like this would take a large staff of trained chemists. It would take large, modern laboratories. It’s implied from the findings of these experiments, that these are already in place. He recognizes instantly the ties to the serial murders. But those men weren’t chemists, they were pharmaceutical salesmen. Legitimate. Or maybe not so legitimate.

Moriarty had a hand in this before his demise, it seems. Who was he? The name sets him on edge. He decides to search his mansion for anything that’s there. He closes his eyes, his back resting against the headboard, steepling his fingers and pressing them against his lips. He stands in front of his grand mansion and steps inside the large, wooden doors leading inside. He takes the winding stairs up. On the second floor at the end of the hall, there’s a door with the name “James Moriarty” written neatly on a placard in Sherlock’s hand. He reaches for the knob, turns, and pulls.

It’s locked.

He needs the key. He pats his trouser pockets. Nothing. He tries to pick the lock, but science and logic don’t work here. His mind mansion doors have sealed him off again!   


Then he paces the hall in front of the room. What is in there? Why does his mind refuse him? All these doors locked tight and no way in. He’s frustrated the only doors that open hold no solutions and only more questions.

He stands defeated. The irony! He must leave his own mind, or he will go mad from it!

He opens his eyes and takes out his cell and checks. Still no notifications. He opens his browser and googles “James Moriarty.” There are 12 million results. He reads the first five. It’s enough, but he continues...master criminal...genius. Also according to numerous tabloids...very dead.

He’s googled the name Sherlock Holmes over the last days with less results. A lot less. He’s miffed Moriarty has almost 11.2 million more results than he does. Even Mycroft has more! For a man who was supposed to be covertly working for the government, Mycroft has almost as many hits as Moriarty. _Curious_. He’ll have to look into why when he has more time.

He uses a boolean search, googling “Sherlock Holmes” and “James Moriarty” together. Ahh. Success. Several tabloids drop his name in conjunction with Moriarty’s investigation, but that is all.

Getting into private and government run servers is too easy. Lestrade hasn’t found a connection, just the name of the pharmaceutical company the victims’ worked for, Bocks Company. In minutes, Sherlock finds a connection that proves fruitful: The company had gone under, but reemerged after Pandora as The Andropa Institute. Sherlock laughed— not even subtle. An anagram! For Pandora!  

He needs more, and he knows where to look. It’s an invitation to a new game— he read between the lines in the folders as Sophy Kratides intended. Where does she keep them?

He waits until later that night. He expected them to lock his door. It is. He also expected them to guard him. They have. He doubts they expect him to climb four stories out the window and come back inside. He does.

But he loses his grip on the eaves and falls. When he twists as he lands, he feels his ankle pop. He’d sprained it much worse when jumping off a fire escape fleeing a rape gang. He bites back the sharp pain. Leaky blood vessels, fluid oozing into his soft tissue surrounding his joint...and it’s the same ankle, weakened by previous trauma.

He moves stealthily around the outside of the house, keeping just out of the security lights’ reach. Behind boxwood bushes and ash trees, he looks for access back inside and finds a lone window propped open. He steps cautiously up, and he smells someone's burnt toast lingering in the kitchen.

Besides Kratides, the house contains “men” Sherlock must avoid. Although not many, he’s counted only three since he’s been here— all of which are well-dressed and most likely at one time MI6. He also knows one has a toddler at home who likes to chew on his coat sleeves, another owns a collie that hates being left home alone, and the third man Sophy called “Ross.” He has a wife with a male dom on the side.  

He scrambles through, his ankle screaming at him, then hobbles his way silently through the downstairs avoiding the man with the lonely border collie, until he finds what he’s looking for— an office. A desk. More files. He looks through them. All belong to the previous owner. He goes to the old Dell desktop that’s hardlined. He fires it up and takes a seat, the screen illuminating his face. No need to guess the password. He logs on in safe mode, and creates a new admin password for himself, and he’s in.

Almost too easy to re-enter. The house, the computer.

Next he looks for any personal files. Again, only those of the past owner. Family photos, bills, receipts, emails. An elderly couple, but he already knew that the moment he walked inside this place. He looks to see if there are ties to Sophy Kratides. He finds none. She chose the house at random, no ties to the owner, or the game.

He turns off the computer, looks around the room once more, then continues his search back through the downstairs hallway.

Sherlock hears Sophy’s voice echo from the living area. She’s talking on her cell. He listens for a moment. “We are agreed then,” she says. “Fine.” Then disconnects. “Ross?!” she calls. He spins too quickly into the shadows and feels the familiar heat from a torn ligament, the joint throbs angrily.

He makes his way back up the stairs to her room while she’s distracted. He chuckles silently to himself remembering how he crept up on John, startling him. John asked Sherlock, “Who do you think you are, James Bond?” Sherlock was flustered. Who was this Bond? John laughed and explained. Only two days ago in their flat this happened. Now, a guard stands with his back to a door in a room he will never feel at home inside. He shakes off his untidy memories.

He’s down the hall and to Sophy’s room. He tries the knob, and unlike his mind mansion, this door is unlocked. The guard has earbuds in, a connection to Sophy, but not at the moment. He’s listening to music on this cell. When Sherlock opens the door, it groans a bit. He’s definitely not 007!  Sherlock’s head jerks up to check the guard, certain the guard has heard, yet the guard doesn’t seem to notice.

Once inside her room, it only takes him moments to find her laptop. No other files about. He makes the decision immediately. If he’s caught there will likely be no repercussions— not that he really gives a damn. He opens it, and she’s logged in, which Sherlock reasons is intentional. This is all too, too easy. She expects him to nose around, which means anything he finds will be something he’s meant to find. Which means they expected him to be out of his room. He sets her laptop aside.

He searches through her room anyway, but finds nothing that she didn’t plant for him to see. No secret panels, nothing behind pictures, paintings, or bookshelves. He does, however, learn what motivates Miss Sophy Kratides as he looks through her dresser.

He returns to the laptop. He tells himself he’s not disturbed. She knows he has a dependency on drugs. She knows the damage it’s done to him. She also knows enough about Sherlock that he doesn’t give a damn about that either. Or so he likes to tell himself. She knows that too. He gets access and reads the trials and errors from the “experiments” alluded to in the files he read downstairs that Sophy so generously gave him. What he learns from her laptop tells Sherlock she has as little regard for human life as he does.

He wonders if he could experiment on live subjects. John would be disappointed. Even if he decides not to help her, there are others who will if he does not. But Sophy wants the sure thing: someone who can.

He’s a chemist, he’s a genius. And she wants him to help synthesize and test a new undetectable drug and use it as an additive to other prescription drugs. From what Sherlock can see, they’re close to perfecting it. An addictive substance, highly addictive, with a subtle euphoric and calming effect. But is it truly undetectable? She wants Sherlock, the detective, to detect the undetectable. If it wasn’t so horrific, it would be comical.

Controlling the drug market is the easiest way to the top of the underground crime ladder. But in this new world turned upside down, one doesn’t need to go underground. Her account books she’s left for him to see look legitimate. He is right about the building’s location: a large office on Cardiff Bay. Excellent labs. It’s name is, of course, The Andropa Institute. Looking over some of the accounts isn’t a surprise either: Cardiff Royal Infirmary is on the supply list.

Were the serial killer’s victims possible people to be silenced? Past employees who knew too much? Or maybe people who wanted more of “the action” that Sophy didn’t want to share?

Sophy is the connection. Not surprising she turned up the same time all the bodies did. But is she the actual murderer or is it someone else in her circle?

She’s let him know all this. She believes he doesn’t care. In a way, she’s right. He doesn’t care. He just wants to solve it. She knows this. It’s the game.

He steps out of the room and doesn’t even hide that he’s in the hallway. No need. He does hide his limp, however. The man “guarding” his door smirks at Sherlock and lets him back into his bedroom. Sherlock shuts the door, then reaches into this pocket for his cell and begins to text John again.

He calls Mrs. Hudson instead.

John may be off having a pint. It’s late. It’s possible he’s still with Lestrade or Mike or Molly. It’s past two though...John is a responsible person— surely he would let Mrs. Hudson know if he’s going to be out this late? He thinks of the nurse. _What if? What is John doing?_ Mrs. Hudson answers, half awake and completely annoyed. With no real finesse, he asks Mrs. Hudson where John is.

“You’re the one who left, dear,” she answers, yawning. “He’s out and having one too many pints, I expect, drowning his sorrows. You shouldn’t be surprised that he’s ignoring your texts, moving out the way you did. But it's nothing you two can’t work out— I’ve seen how you boys are together, thick as thieves. Always best to kiss and make up. Never go to bed angry— that’s what I always say. Of course you need to come home to do that.”

Sherlock ignores her although part of him hopes John wants him back. Hopes it's true. 

 _No._  He can't go. But a part of him wishes… “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

He should know better than to care. People are fickle. In a few days, John Watson will forget Sherlock even lived upstairs.

He tries to sleep. He goes to his mansion instead. He forgets locked doors and spends the evening rereading a pharmaceutical microbiology manual his mind instead.

————————————

The next morning Sherlock takes his time before meeting Sophy. As he sits in the dining room with his morning coffee, she comes in to join him dressed is camel ruched-sleeve blazer and brown slim-leg trousers. She takes no time at all to jump in headfirst.

“Think what people would do, would pay,” she says. “I’m not a greedy person by nature. I don’t want much.”

“You don’t want people in your way.”

She laughs and pats Sherlock’s hand as she sits down next to him. “No, I don’t. But it’s not only for money. No need to go to such lengths either. It’s a waste of time and energy, and there’s other less messy ways of going about silencing people.”

“A quick shot to the head?” he says, straightening the front of his blue bathrobe.

She laughs harder. “That would work. But it’s messier yet.”

“I wasn’t referring to it in a metaphorical sense. Shootings and stabbings are commonplace on the streets. Police would just think it’s another robbery gone bad. But poisoning then strangling someone? That’s personal and out of the ordinary. It gets attention.”

“Exactly. What’s really messy is not having a solution. That’s what you want. I’m offering you more than just to help us out in the labs. You would be invaluable there, but I think solving this little serial killer case first might take the edge off before diving in. No need to involve the authorities. I have someone who’s trying to push into my territory. The end game is to frame me for these murders. It’s all been laid out neatly, the crumbs all leading to me.”

Sherlock leans back in the chair, back straight. “I would assume you know exactly who it is. You don’t need me.”

“Oh, but I do. I know who I’m meant to think it is— Lord Henry Blackwood but...” She taps her finger against her temple.

“But...”

“Lord Henry Blackwood does not work that way. He would take credit for it and gloat about it. No.”

“I’ll need access to your records.”

“You already had it.”

“The ones not doctored. The ones that are hidden somewhere in this house.”

“Frustrated you couldn’t find them? That’s because they were never here. But I’ll give you all the records pertaining to the our pharma operations.”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I’ll need to decide what pertains and what does not. I need access to your assets, records. Tangible. Intangible. I would also like to speak to this Lord Henry Blackwood.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible. He’s something of a recluse.”

“A reclusive braggart? Fascinating. Even more reason for me to meet him.”

—————————-

The files are endless, but he wades through them. He must find out where she’s stashing all of them! Probably one of the buildings adjacent to the house. As he searches through, so much of the property acquired through Kradites’ operations are by Andropa.

After breaking into the backdoor of National Assembly’s servers, Sherlock determines that other major property holdings seem to be in only a few different hands— one being Andropa and its shell game of smaller businesses under other names. It doesn’t take long to find similar patterns.

Others such as Lord Henry Blackwood have done the same to hide their properties. Kratides was right that there is another big player. All trails lead to Moriarty’s old criminal organization, but Moriarty is dead. Someone must have taken over. From Sherlock’s research, his successor would most likely be Sebastian Moran, but records reveal he died during the epidemic.

Sherlock fixes his eyes out the window. It’s mid-morning and fog still shrouds the grounds. Narrowing down where the reclusive Lord Blackwood is hiding, will take more time, but Sherlock is almost certain he is hidden in plain sight. Somewhere he can covertly perform the machinations necessary to manipulate his empire. It takes far less time to find him than he predicted. Sherlock smiles. He has him!  [ Capital Tower ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Capital_Tower,_Cardiff). Now, it’s just a matter of working out how to get in and visit Blackwood. Enter Sophy Kratides.

“I see you've been very busy,” she says. “And you’ve made yourself at home.” She stares at the collage of papers and notes pinned to the wall, surrounding a map of Cardiff. She steps closer and points to one of the many red circles drawn on the map linked neatly together in a chain. “And you know where Lord Blackwood is.” She pokes her finger at the circle with a star in the center.

He raises his eyebrow. “Get me your driver. I need to meet with Lord Blackwood.”

She smiles and shakes her head. “You think you can simply walk in and ask to see him?”

“Of course. Then, when they deny me, I’ll know through their puny words and actions exactly where he is.”

“And find some way to see him.”

“Precisely. Let your driver know I’m ready.”

“He’s out on an errand, but he’ll return in an hour or so. We’ll go then.”

“We? Is that necessary,” he says. “Despite what you said about my being able to leave whenever I wished, you’ve locked my door, guarded it.”

“And you got out with ease. Sherlock, you know I need to keep an eye on you. You’re a dangerous and valuable man. I need to know where you’re at all times. Also, before visiting Lord Blackwood, I’d change— you need to look less like a homeless person and more of someone of merit. Wear some of the clothes I brought back for you from your old flat in London.”

While he waits for the driver, he reads every last scrap of information he can find on Lord Blackwood.

Three hours later beneath his usual Belstaff, Sherlock’s lithe body stands in front of Capital Tower clad in a Spencer Hart suit with white Dolce shirt. He regrets he has no gloves. He feels a bit naked without them, but Sophy insisted his tattered leather ones should go. She promised to get him a new pair. He pushes through the revolving doors, still a bit irritated that the driver took so long, then insisted that Sophy and the driver wait even if it is a block away. He suspects there was more to the delay, but he’s still not unravelled why.

The cream interior of the mezzanine grates at Sherlock. It’s not just the clean, pointless color. Not that Sherlock thinks a building should have a personality, but nothing has been altered. The decor is unchanged from the photos Sherlock saw before Pandora. Between the ivory pillars, behind an equally off-white front desk, sits a man and a woman. He can work with them.

The man’s computer screen is up and on, and while not visible, Sherlock can see its reflection in the man’s glasses.

“I’m here to speak to Albert Crenshaw.”

“One moment, I’ll let him know you’re here. What is your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes.”

“Right, Mr. Holmes.” He holds up a finger. “One moment.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and then gives a stony glare. “Don’t be too long.”

“ _You’re_ a chopsy one, aren’t _you_?” the woman says. She dresses with extreme care: hair coiffed neatly, nails recently trimmed and painted, her makeup understated. She places the cell in her hand under the counter in an effort to appear as if it’s remove the distraction, but really it’s from observer’s eyes.

“And _you_ have a son who’s sucking the life out of _you_ ,” Sherlock nods and says to her.

“All children suck the life out of you,” she says, unruffled. “Never had a cavity until I gave birth to my twins. A full set of dentures is what they left me, bless their souls.”

“Mr. Crenshaw says he has no appointment scheduled for you,” says the male receptionist. His hair is thinning and the comb over makes him look ten years older. “To what is this in regard?”

“It’s regarding an inept secretary who can’t fill appointments properly into a simple spreadsheet. I have a two o’clock interview with Mr. Crenshaw. It was confirmed this morning by Hollace Abrum.”

“Mr. Abrum does attend this desk, but we have no record.”

“Tell Mr. Crenshaw I’ve come to interview for the lab tech position. I don’t see why an interview is even necessary. I’m obviously the most qualified.”

“Those interviews were completed yesterday. The position is already filled.”

“This is untolerable! What ineptitude! Tell Crenshaw, Mr. Sherlock Holmes demands to see him.”

The man speaks into the phone, annoyance clear in his voice. “Sir, his name is Sherlock Holmes and he’s...yes.” He covertly pushes a button beneath the desk.

Time to depart. Sherlock spins around, coat flying like a cape, spinning through the revolving doors like Superman. He’s straight outside and around the building as fast as he can manage. He’s searching for a specific store which adjoins the building; the shop fronts have changed since google maps updated last, but he recognizes the bright red awning.

Easy enough to distract those within and slip into the storage area where, just as he suspected, easy access through a service panel. He finds himself on a stairwell that takes him to an upper parking ramp. His ankle is hot and swollen. When he put his shoe on earlier, it barely fit, and when he pressed his fingers into his flesh, an indentation remained. He pushes on, ignoring the pain.

From the ramp he moves, another stairwell. While does his best to avoid security cameras, he simply pretends he belongs to fool those who may be observing.

The top two floors are Lord Blackwood’s. Of course there’s a locked door blocking the stairwell access to the last two floors, but unlike his locked doors in his mind mansion, these are real. And a combination! Why do people insist on using birthdays?! It's Blackwood’s black sheep of a brother’s, but it works.

The combination on the next door proves troublesome. After the fifth try, Sherlock gives up. Most likely one his pet schnauzer's birthdays. Sherlock goes up on the roof instead, down the second access stairwell. This is sealed off from the main stairwell, but grants access to Lord Blackwood's living space. It seems the only way in for Sherlock is up to the roof then down through the left stairwell since the elevators in the center of the building are too conspicuous. The same combination lock is on this door, and Sherlock gets it on the second try. Grandfather’s birthday this time.

Sherlock walks into Lord Blackwood’s flat like it’s his. The schnauzers bark, signaling Sherlock's here. Friendly fellows, they greet him, jumping on his legs, running in circles. He pats one on the head. He zeroes in to where their master could be. In the floorplan, Blackwood’s office was overlooking Cardiff, his realm. The dogs seem to think he should go there too, but why no one but the dogs have greeted him, which makes Sherlock believe Lord Blackwood might be elsewhere.

Sherlock stops dead in the office doorway. A lamp is overturned, papers litter the floor. He takes three more steps inside. Behind the desk, Lord Blackwood is sprawled out on the floor on his back. Face pale, marks around his neck. Sherlock doesn’t need to kneel down and feel his pulse to know he’s dead but not for long. Still he checks, the dogs helping him, each whining and whimpering and licking their master. 

As he inspects Blackwood, he scans the room for clues. A struggle. All that was once on top of his desk, is on the floor, the side desk drawer is open with a service revolver still in place. His mind unravels it. A frame. Not for Sophy, but him. It’s all too clear. She thinks he’ll be completely dependent on her now. To hide him from authorities, keep him, manipulate him. Blackwood knew his killer, that is certain. Then he sees the wound on his neck. A scratch. The killer broke a nail. He runs his hands and inspects the floor. Nothing. Then he remembers, the woman at the desk with the freshly done nails.

He leaves, taking the elevator to one of the lower floors, gets out and then continues down through the stairwell. Sophy knows he’s on camera. The front desk already called security on him. He hears people moving all around. Searching. His fingerprints are everywhere thanks to no gloves.

Then the alarm goes off in the building.

He pulls out his cell and texts Sophy.

_Lord Blackwood is dead. But you knew that. SH_

He crawls back through the service panel, and manages to avoid security and police crawling all over as he makes his way through the secondary building out to the street. He hears Lestrade and almost steps out to give himself up, but stops himself. 

 _I need to know where you’re at all times_.

He knew she was cunning. He knew she was after him. He recalls something else Sophy said to him last night. He’d deduced her main motivation. Then he’d found evidence in her room. He said it was power. She said he was incorrect. It wasn’t as much what she said, but her voice when she’s said it. That was the last bit of evidence he needed, corroborating what he found in her dresser. She always spoke so clinically. This time she spoke with a strain in her voice, holding back.

“Justice,” she'd said. “I know you care little about that, but you do care about a good puzzle. This is the biggest who-done-it in the history of man. Most of the human race, dead. What you need to find out is if you did it.”

Justice. She is right that he needs to solve it, but Sophy Kratides already believes he did it. And she lost someone. He saw the keepsake, a locket, under her panties in the dresser. She never thought he'd look under them. 

Sherlock understands loss. He’s lost it all. His past. And now John. It’s what’s inside the locket for Sophy Kratides. A woman. He says he has no feeling because that’s what he’s told himself he wants. But justice? She believes he doesn’t care about that. She wants it. He knows she also wanted it from Lord Blackwood. Her message back to Sherlock is one word.

_Justice._

He reads it, then throws the cell in the nearest rubbish bin.


	12. Chapter 12

“I also suspect you haven’t told him how you feel,” Anthea says.

“What does that mean?” John presses his back into the cushion and stretches his legs out in front of him. He loves first class.

Anthea taps her fingers on the seat. The train is almost to Paddington Station. From there, they’re to go somewhere by car into the London countryside where Sherlock’s supposed family home resides.

The lengths this Anthea has gone to prove to him that she was Mycroft’s personal assistant appeases John. Proof that she’s true while Sophy Kratides is false. He’s weighted the two. With Anthea, her motives seem clear: to protect God, Country, AND the Holmes brothers. With Sophy? It’s about some past grief or grudge. And herself.

“Don’t pretend,” she says. “It’s obvious to everyone you find him attractive.”

“A person would have to be blind not to notice those cheekbones.” He closes his eyes and rests the back of his head against the seat. He thank god for the private car.

“He is attracted to you.”

John’s eyes fly open. “I wouldn’t go that far. What kind of line of questioning is this?” he asks, then chooses to ignore her by turning his head toward the window and watch the countryside.

“It’s not an interrogation, if that’s what you think. I’m preparing you. I’m merely asking you questions I know Sherlock’s mum will ask.”

“How about this?” he says stubbornly. “When she asks, _if_  she asks — then I’ll answer. And that's  _if_ she’s even his mum! Until that time, no more personal questions.”

Slow, controlled, yet personal, Anthea leans into him, meets his eyes. At least the first class seats are comfortable.

“We have Sherlock’s mobile located and can now listen,” she says. “Please use the app that Lincoln took the time to install. You will be able to hear and evaluate his progress. We’re been following his movements for over the last hour.”

He’s had a hard time with this idea of spying on Sherlock. He’d turned his mobile off after Lincoln returned it to him, feeling like he was betraying Sherlock on some level. Still, as he said to Anthea, he’d rather it was him, but it seems that’s not the case. Everyone has the app!

The moment he turns on his mobile, he sees twelve new messages. They can’t be from Molly; she knows he’s safe, and he told her to tell Mrs. Hudson he was fine. She’d be fretting if he hadn’t told Molly to pass on the word to why he didn’t come home. Still, he's been gone much longer than expected.

“He’s en route somewhere,” Anthea says. “Moving toward Cardiff Bay.”

The messages are all from Sherlock, wondering where he is, why he’s not answering. The bloody git! He’s concerned. John knew it! He really didn’t want to leave.

He turns his attention to the app, turns it on. It looks direct and rather easy to navigate. He supposes he should have opened it to learn how the app functioned a bit before this. He puts his earbuds in and hears Sophy’s voice.

He listens in as Sophy and Sherlock talk about a Lord Blackwood. He sits up in his seat as he realizes the gravity of the conversation. Sherlock repeats what Sophy has said, that Lord Blackwood is linked to the serial killings. Sophy replies that she wants to know positively that Blackwood is the one framing her.

_“I will know the moment I speak to him,” Sherlock says. “You’re very sure of yourself,” Sophy says back._

Sophy's voice sounds off. On the battlefield John trusted his intuition, and it saved his arse more than once. He thinks he needs to trust it now.

Anthea reaches over and taps an icon at the bottom of his mobile’s screen. A map pops up, and John watches as a blinking red dot with red dashes of marching ants leave a trail behind. Sherlock’s red dot has stopped and blinks in place. Anthea demonstrates to John how to enlarge the map by spreading and dragging her fingers on his screen. He hears a few of Sophy’s last instructions. He can almost hear Sherlock rolling his eyes in response. A few moments later, Sherlock's dot is moving again, slower. He’s on foot.

There’s a pinch and twinge in his shoulder. Even in first class seats, the three and a half hour ride fucks with him, but he’s too intent on what’s on his mobile to care.

“Who is Lord Blackwood?” John asks.

“A millionaire. He made most of his fortune in real estate. He's owned various companies. And yes, a few are pharmaceutical. He’s a recluse— before the Pandora, he was visible but only intermittently. After Pandora, he’s become a mystery— it’s rumored he’s housed in the top floor of one of the tallest buildings in Cardiff.

“And Sherlock is going in to meet him alone,” John says.

“I hardly think that’s possible. The man never sees anyone.”

“Knowing Sherlock, I don’t think this Lord Blackwood will have a choice.” John watches Sherlock’s progress. He’s stopped again. “One of those buildings wouldn’t happen to be Capital Tower?” John asks.

“One is. And it looks as if he’s in it.”

John listens to the conversation Sherlock’s having with the people at the front desk of the tower. He’s about to get himself thrown out when he’s on the move again. He’s going out of the building and around to the back into an adjoining shop of some sort.

John’s mind turns to other things. Although he told them not to worry, Mrs. Hudson will most likely be in a panic by now anyway since he hasn’t returned. He’s wondering what Molly is thinking. As for Lestrade, the last time John talked to him was about Sherlock. And Sherlock? What kind of danger is he putting himself into?

He turns to Anthea. “You said before that Sherlock was safe as long as he doesn’t remember. What exactly does Sophy Kratides _not_ want Sherlock to remember?”

“I not entirely certain, but I assume the same things that I want him _to_ remember— what happened when he was undercover, but for other reasons entirely.”

Sophy swore she was there to help Sherlock, but nothing she’d done was to protect him. Instead, she gave him a few clothes and a violin that wasn’t his. She took him. On the other hand, while Anthea could come off just as cold, he heard the sincerity in her voice.

She’s beautiful. He’d thought about flirting with her, but found it wouldn’t be worth the effort. At first he told himself it was because she’s cold and unapproachable, but the real reason was his new flatmate.

John sighed. He decides to confide in her. “He’s trying to remember, and it’s coming back in bits. I’m certain head trauma may have aggravated it, but it’s not the reason he doesn’t remember.”

“I thought as much. I need to know the whole story. There’s already so much misinformation about how the epidemic started, and Sophy Kratides and her cohorts are part of feeding this false information to what’s left of the press.”

John notes that it looks like Sherlock is walking in small circles. John hears him huffing and puffing, shoes slapping...then John realizes, he’s climbing stairs!

“Like fake news?” John asks.

“Exactly. Can you put that on speaker?” she asks and sits closer to him, watching his mobile screen instead of her own. “They have a website with people who feed this misinformation to the world. She is painting Mycroft Holmes as some Machiavellian puppet master who’s responsible for all the bad that has happened in the world, including Pandora, when in reality the man did everything in his power to stop the world from flying apart, including sacrificing the brother he loved.”

In that moment John realizes that it’s possible that Anthea may have been in love with Mycroft. It’s the first time he’s seen this intensity, this powerful concern from her. She bites her lip before she continues. “With both of her sons missing, and all this horrible gossip, I thought it would kill Mrs. Holmes, but when we found out Sherlock was alive, she had hope again. I know you are not one-hundred percent convinced, but I assure you, after meeting Mrs. Holmes, you will be.”

Sherlock has stopped. He hears Sherlock mumbling. John never realized he mumbled. It’s numbers. Combinations. Then, the red dot moves around in a broader circle.

“All you’ll need to do is look at her. You’ll know,” Anthea says.

“He’s in,” John says. Anthea nods. They watch the blinking red dot together move around what must be the top floor, then after a time, he seems to leave. They hear ding of an elevator bell and swish of its door, then it opens. The sound of Sherlock’s feet. He’s moving fast. John knows something is wrong. Then an alarm rings. He hears Lestrade’s voice say, “He’s on camera.”

He’s out of the building. The app beeps. Anthea quickly reaches over and taps another mobile shaped icon on his cell. Sherlock has sent a text. _Lord Blackwood is dead. But you knew that. SH_

Another beep. Another text message. A response. It simply says, _Justice_.

“I don’t like this. We should be there not a hundred miles away. He’s in trouble.”

“He’s a big boy. He knows how to take care of himself.”  

The app beeps again. Another message to Sophy. _My suspicions had been thoroughly reawakened on finding Black Dog at the spy-glass. SH_  Then the dot doesn’t move. At all.

“Whatever does that mean?” she asks.

“It’s from _Treasure Island_. It means he knows he’s being tracked. He assumes Sophy is tracking his mobile, but he thinks there’s a good chance someone else might be too. He sent the message, then he ditched the cell.”

“And he knew it might be us?”

“He a bloody genius. That’s the only reason why he’d quote Robert Louis Stevenson. The git knew I might be listening.”

The rest of way to Paddington, John worries, but not so much. He knows where Sherlock will go. A place where no one but John kind find him.

————————————-

Anthea gives them time alone together. This woman, who calls herself Sherlock’s mum, looks like him. She’s a mathematician. Retired professor. His father, also a professor, but of literature. She tells John, he passed away during the epidemic. Her simple yet elegant dress expresses her childlike love of colour. She wears no jewelry. Her white hair is cut short and curls the same haphazard way as Sherlock’s. The home is what he thought it’d be, aristocratic, but not overstated but with splashes of colour like her dress. Antiques mixed with modern done tastefully with more of an eye for comfort than show. What does surprise John is how warm and homey it feels. A colorful Durham quilt is balled up in a wingback chair near the fireplace, which tells John it’s her favored spot. Although Mrs. Holmes has that same aloof manner, beneath there is the same heart. Hers is of a caring mum. When she speaks of her sons, her eyes water a bit, and love aches behind every word.

There is no doubt: He is her son. The inflections in her voice remind him so much of Sherlock. She’s as uncomfortable and awkward, and John finds it endearing. And if he had any other doubts, there are the photos and oil paintings. Younger versions of Mrs. Holmes with her sons and husband adorn tables, walls, and the elegant Steinway. He steps closer to the grand piano to see the pictures displayed on top. The key cover is up, the bench is out and so is the sheet music. Chopin. It’s been played. He recalls how math and music go together. Her son gets his talent from her. Hands behind his back, he turns to the photos, all in gilded frames. The family. With Sherlock and his older brother, Mycroft. His father. A striking man. He sees Sherlock in him also. But that’s not why he believes. He notices a picture of them standing in front of another large estate.

“This not where he was raised,” she says, referring to the photo. “Our family home burned when he was a young boy, but he lived here for much of his childhood. You may see his room if you’re not convinced yet.”

“I’d like like to see his room, but not because I’m not convinced.” He winks, and this brings a smile to her face so much like Sherlock’s that his chest feels tight. He misses him and he’s worried. Before they go up to Sherlock’s room, she makes him more tea with delicious homemade scones that would put Mrs. Hudson to shame. They talk about his work as a doctor. Later as they climb the stairs to Sherlock’s room, she asks him how much her son remembers.

“More each day,” John replies, trying his best to lift her spirits as he follows her. He half-expects Holmes ancestors to hang in the hall, then remembers the family fire.

“Anthea told me Sherlock was injured.”

“Head injury. I’m afraid he’s had seizures from them, and it’s most likely part of his memory loss. When I first met him, he called himself Will.”

“I used to call him Willie when he was a boy. I still do although he doesn't like it. As he grew older, he decided he wanted to be called Sherlock.” She seems a bit saddened by this as she leads him down the hallway then halts. “You left something unsaid. You said ‘part of his memory loss.’ You believe there is another reason for my son’s amnesia?”

“Yes, it often stems from blocking out something that the patient doesn’t want to remember. I think it’s more than likely when he was injured something happened so traumatic that he found it necessary to block it out. Considering what his mission was, the fate of the world resting on his success, I’d say when he knew he’d failed, that would be enough to cause it.” She seems disturbed. John almost wishes he hadn’t shared this with her. But she nods and accepts as she opens the door.

His eyes go to an old stuffed bear, toy pirate sword and hat along with a magnifying glass set in a cherished space on a well-used walnut writing desk. Next to the bed against the wall rests a violin case. A large mahogany bookcase lines the wall parallel to it.

“I blamed Mycroft. My last words to him were bitter. I regret them.” She sat down on Sherlock’s old four-poster bed with a simple frame covered in an old handmade quilt much like the one in the chair his mum sat upon. “I’m afraid it’s a all bit cluttered. When Willie disappeared, Mycroft had his apartment packed up and kept some of his more personal possessions here, hoping.”

She pats the bed for him to take a seat. John takes a seat on the bed next to her.

“There’s something else you need to know, as a doctor and as his friend. You are a good friend to my Willie.”

John smiles and nods. He is.

She smiles back. “I’m glad my son found someone who cares like you. He’s had so much trouble in his life, so much pain. To understand, as his doctor and friend, I need to reveal to you a family secret. Not really so secret. It’s just been touchy.”

“Whatever you tell me, I will keep it in the strictest confidence.”

“I know you will. This memory loss...my son experienced it before...as a child. He had a sister. I can’t go into details, but the circumstances of her loss were tragic. My son blocked it all out, all that happened that day, and all memory of his sister.”

As she speaks, John become conscious of other details in the room. The large windows with heavy shades are pulled tight as if to stop light and time from disturbing the room. It’s still cluttered with lab equipment in boxes, some clothing from when Sherlock last came inside. John expected tablets with sketches of people and places. There are none. But he remembers something Sherlock left at his flat in his sketchpad, charcoal drawings of a young girl.

“He drew her,” John says.

“Drew? Does he remember her?”

“It’s coming back to him in pieces, but he doesn’t remember her— at least not that he’s told me.”

“He spent years in counseling. It did some good. He recovered most of his memories of his childhood except those of his sister. We kept the photos of her around for years hoping he’d remember her. It only disturbed him more that he couldn’t, so we packed them away.”

It gave John pause to think that what was in these boxes and in this room might never unlock his past. It might all be for nothing if this was the case.

“Where _are_ his drawings?” John asks.

“Drawings?” she asks.

“Yes, he sketches almost obsessively.”

“He was excellent artist as a child but never cultivated that part of himself as an adult. He loved chemistry and turned to that in college. You said he draws now. What does he draw?”

“People mostly. That’s how I knew the moment I saw you. He’s captured you so well, although a younger version, but you. Charcoal and pencil sketches.” There. He’d said it, and she cries. John’s not sure what to do. He wants to comfort her, but she’s embarrassed at her outburst, covers her face with her long fingers and brushes away the tears.

She pulls herself together and worries the quilt between her fingers.

“I have more of his life stored away. One box is filled with crime scene sketches. Too grizzly and macabre for my taste. I really didn’t want them in the house— but that he drew...me...” she bites her lip and fights back more tears.

John imagines what it would be like to get back part of his family— he’d be a blubbering mess too.

To give her a bit more space, he stands and walks across the room. He touches the stuffed bear on the chair near the windows, then steps up to the bookcase with his back to her to give her a few more moments to compose herself. Of all the books one stands out. It’s a well-worn copy of _Treasure Island_.

 _The text. Sherlock’s message._ He takes it off the shelf and opens it, and to his surprise, it’s more than a book. The pages have been glued together and the inside hollowed out. Within it, is a skeleton key.

“That’s the key to the treasure chest.” She laughs. It’s the first time John’s heard her laugh. It reminds him of Sherlock’s.

“Where’s that?”

“Ahh, the mysterious treasure chest? Only Sherlock knows where it is...and maybe Mycroft. I’m not sure that it even exists except in his mind palace.”

“What did you say?” John says.

“In his mind palace. Has he told you of that?”

“He said something about having all these rooms in his head— most of them he couldn’t open. He calls it his mansion.”

“That would be Sherlock’s mind palace. It’s how he orders his world.”

John laughs. A palace. “Rather a romantic notion. It sounds more like a pirate’s perspective,” John comments.

“My son, the dreamer. Or at least he was before university. Then he tried so hard to hide it. I know at first glance Sherlock doesn’t seem a romantic, he builds his ideas sailing the seas, solving crimes, saving the world.”

She pats the bed for John to sit down next to her again. His chest gets tight, his breath uneven. She’s going to ask. He slowly sits.

“Excuse me if I’m being forward, but I need to know. You are my son’s doctor and friend, but might you be something more to my son?”

“You mean, romantically?”

“Yes.”

“No, just friends.”

“Are you so sure? The way you speak of him, I think there is more.”

John sighs. “On my part, perhaps. I admit, I’m attached to him a bit more than I should be.”

“Do you love him?”

John closes his eyes. He’s avoided this question in his own mind time and again since he met this man. How can you love someone who doesn’t even know who he is? Oh, but John does know who he is, doesn’t he?! He’s the same as the man who stayed in this room— who carved a secret compartment into a book of _Treasure Island_. Gave him a secret message. Left to save him. Maybe he’s asking himself the wrong question: How could John not love him?

“I don’t know how he feels.”

He's avoiding her question, is all the answer she needs. She smiles wide. “I know my son. He repeated Mycroft’s words ‘caring is not an advantage’ so long and so hard that he thought he believed them. What happened with his sister as a child changed him. He withdrew more and more. It changed my eldest son also. He became harder.” She pats John’s hands. “But Willie, he never did become that way deep down. He’s always cared. As you said, he is a romantic at heart although he refuses to acknowledge this. He feels it’s too dangerous to care, but if anything, he cares too deeply. That is why he forgot his sister. You are right, Dr. Watson— that’s why he can’t remember who he is now. The weight of the world took his memory from him. He needs someone to return it, to make him whole. I think you are the man who will help my son return it, along with his heart.”

John’s face feels hot and his heart beats faster. “I don’t know…”

“Take some things of his with you. What do you think will help him remember? I know it never worked before, but we must try.”

John chooses the copy of _Treasure Island_ , his violin, his stuffed bear and his magnifying glass.

“Good choices. You know my son well,” she says and stands up and begins to collect what he needs from the room. She hands him Benny Bear, then his violin, his real violin.

“Thank you.”

“You can nap here for a bit,” she says. “Anthea said the next train departs late morning. We’ll have an early breakfast before you’re off— I can show you the grounds and chat a bit more if there’s time.”

“I look forward to it.” John sits down on the bed.

“Next time you come to visit me, bring my Willie with you.” She kisses his cheek.

“I will.” John hopes he can keep that promise.

————————————

When he’s dropped off at the door of 221b, Mrs. Hudson practically suffocates him with hugs, kisses, _and_   questions. It’s only been 24 hours, but he’s as overcome as she is.

The first words from his lips are “I’m sorry.”

“They’d thought he’d done something to you,” she says. She disgusted, and in a huff she explains all that happened. As she continues, his blood pressure rises. She says the police think Sherlock killed Lord Blackwood and done something to John?! What was Greg thinking?

“Well, this has all gone to shite,” he says, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Not the homecoming he expected, but he berates himself for not expecting something like this. He hands the violin case to Mrs. Hudson.

“Here, keep this safe for now.”

“What do you intend to do?” she asks.

“Don’t you worry, Mrs. Hudson, I know where he is,” he reassures her. “And I’m going to find him— just need to get a few things upstairs.” John starts up the stairs, but turns to her after two steps. “If anyone comes looking for me, you haven’t seen me.”

“But they think he’s done something to you!” she calls up, violin case clutched to her chest as John continues up the stairs.

“It’s important that Ms. Sophy Kratides doesn’t find out I’ve returned,” he calls back. “I don’t want her looking for me and finding Sherlock in the process.” The way he spits out her name there’s no disguising his contempt for her.

“I knew it!” she says. “I didn’t trust that woman.”

He goes into his flat, gets Sherlocks meds, some food. He’s for shite at taking care of himself. John knows Anthea will track him on his mobile and leaves it on the table. He checks his service revolver still stuffed in the back of his jeans. He may need it although he hopes not. It’s beginning to get dark.

Mrs. Hudson is still standing in her door waiting for him to come down. _Bless that woman_ , John thinks.

“If another woman named Anthea comes to find me,” John says, “tell her not to worry. I’ll be back.”  

“Be careful, John.” Her words makes John stop and turn around before he steps out the door.

“I’ll be back, and with Sherlock. I might be awhile depending on how he is.”

He’s cautious. He tacitly moves through Cardiff’s streets. He avoids attention. His years as a soldier, moving stealthily from building to building come back to him. He’s at Sherlock’s old bolt hole and makes his way inside, up the stairs and to the closest entrance to his attic. He knocks and calls out in a low voice. No answer. At first. Then he hears a scratching and clawing. He calls again and another scratch returns. It’s not locked. He pushes the trapdoor open. A meow? Sherlock has as cat? But that also means...John’s eye catches a movement on the cushion in the corner. _Sherlock_. He scrambles into the room and shuts the trapdoor behind him, a black cat rubbing against John’s leg.

“Sherlock?” And John hears a moan of an answer.


	13. Chapter 13

He’s never been so happy to see anyone. That he can remember. Even if he could remember he doesn’t think it’s possible to be this happy and in this much pain at the same time. It’s almost like he’s watching his body from the outside in— an out-of-body, inner agony of sorts. 

“John!” he chokes out. He wants to ask him where he’s been, what happened, but he finds it’s hard to speak. He wants to reach out and hold John close, but he’s groggy and confused as John takes his pulse, checks his pupils and reflexes. 

His own arms flap about uselessly as John gently turns his head and neck in trustworthy hands. John takes a second look into his eyes.  _ Curious _ .  His healing fingers check Sherlock's pulse, releasing furious fluttering butterflies in his stomach.

John tests him with silly questions. Of course, Sherlock already identified him as  _ Doctor John Hamish Watson formerly Captain John Hamish Watson of the  _ _ 5th Northumberland Fusiliers.   _  In. His. Head.  

But moving his lips? That’s another matter entirely, so he gasps out, “John!” again . 

After, John increases the test difficulty with what’s the chemical equation for photosynthesis? _Simple,_  Sherlock thinks! _It’s 6CO2 + 6H2O + light energy = C6H12O6 + 6O2._ But saying it? He gives it a go, but his tongue gets turned around, so John...thoughtful John...seeing Sherlock knows the answer but can’t speak it, gives him exam he can pass. 

“What’s your name?” John asks. 

Sherlock chokes out a laugh. He’s got him there. “W-which one?” he stammers back.  _ Sherlock? Will? Willie?   _ He’s never quite sure anymore the answer to that one. John laughs back.

John laughs and questions him again, but it’s more of an inquiry than quiz. “When did you get the cat?”

“I didn’t,” he struggles. “He got me.” He’s proud. Success! His mouth worked. Words. He loves them, but after one of his episodes, he finds them so hard to form it can be overwhelming.

“Hmm. That’s the way with cats. Seems right though since you’re a lot like a cat yourself.”

Sherlock stares at him. “How?”

“Finicky eater,” John says with a grin that Sherlock thinks is charming. It could also be the state he’s in. “Uppity attitude,” John continues.

Yes. And yes. 

“You both crave attention but on your own terms.”  

True. He hates to be ignored. Having John’s attention, radiates heat. John’s watchful eyes are better than any thermal blanket. 

“You purr when I do this.” John brushes the sweaty curls off Sherlock’s forehead, then messages Sherlock’s scalp with his perfect doctor fingers, which does make Sherlock feel a bit like purring. Certainly he feels a much better as John’s fingernails scrunch and tickle near the back of his ear. When John’s hand away pulls away, Sherlock groans in disappointment.

“You’re curious,” John says brightly. “And you always land on your feet.”

Sherlock tries to raise his eyebrow to the last comment. It’s not always true, but finds his tongue unresponsive again. Instead he wonders about John and landing on his. He saved him from having to try. He remembers that first meeting with John dangling by his fingertips. He’s so glad he pulled John to safety. 

“Is that a purple shirt?” John’s blushing a bit. “I don’t remember that.”

“F-from my flat in London.”

“I like it.” 

Sherlock feels like preening when John says it. He is a lot like the cat!

“Where  _ were  _ you?” Sherlock asks.

“Would you believe _ in  _ London. To see your mother?” 

“What?” Sherlock is confused. He thought she was dead along with this family—  how could he be with her? He must be hearing John wrong. The cat slinks up next Sherlock and snuggles up against his thigh.

“And it seems you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a mess. And that Sophy is a fat liar. Anthea is alive and well and in no way related to her. I hope she’s hot on Sophy’s trail and gets exposed for what’s she’s doing to you.”  

“You met my mum?” he’s having a hard time keeping his eyes open. He’s tired, but wants to talk to John. He’s afraid if he closes them, it might not be real and John may disappear. After seizures he always feels as if he’s become separated from himself. It’s not so terrifying anymore since he has some sense of who he is, but before when he had no recollections of any life, it immobilized him. 

“Yes, and she’s a very nice lady who wants to see her son soon.”

He nods and notices John’s a bit bumpy. He nods at the bulges of objects tucked inside John’s jacket. “What’s that in your coat?”

“A few items from your past. We thought they might help you remember.”

“I’ve tried. There’s so much that’s locked up.” 

John frowns. He doesn’t understand. Sherlock wants to explain how he went into his rooms. How he did it to solve this riddle, but his mouth won’t cooperate. 

“I think you need sleep,” John says, noting Sherlock’s distress. “I’ll stay awake for now and keep an eye on you, but you need to take some of your meds first.” 

He helps Sherlock sit up a bit, pops some pills into his mouth and gives him a swig of water from a bottle. Afterward, careful and kind hands settle Sherlock back down on the cushions. John pets his brow again, then gives his arm a squeeze. 

“You gave me a scare when I saw you lying here,” John says. “Don’t do that again.”

“I’ll try not…” He notices John’s taken his jacket is off, and he’s wearing that oatmeal jumper. It’s ugly and yet comforting. 

“Shhh. Get some rest. You’re safe. I’m safe, or as safe as we can be for now in this insane world.”

He’s not sure how long he sleeps, but he wakes to John leafing through a sketch pad of his drawings with the cat purring like thunder curled up in John’s lap. 

Sherlock has regained some of his strength and sits up to stretch. His head is clearer. After a seizure, or episode as John calls them, Sherlock always feels as if his mind has sprung from a trap with time and space slipping painfully slow into normal. He pushes aside the anxiety that threatens to eat at him afterward, and he recognizes the stuffed bear sitting beside John. He’s drawn it, seen it in the large living room in his mind: It sits on a bed. A wash of other memories from childhood come to him as John’s chin comes up and his eyes meet Sherlock’s. 

Ben the Pirate Bear. Mycroft. Redbeard. Sandcastles. Their island hideout. Vacations at Skully Island! He remembers his mum’s peals of laughter at his father’s stories of his literature students’ crazy antics. 

These memories jump into his head so suddenly they feel muzzy and surreal. How can they not exist one moment and be there the next? But he’s certain it’s real! He remembers his home. The flames glowing in the night sky. The scotching fire and taste of smoke linger. He swears he can even smell it this very second, clinging to him. The horror swells inside him of his home turned to charred black skeleton and ashes.

And then it’s fuzzy again, then in focus. He’s sitting near a fireplace next to his mum. _ “Remember your sister?”  _  she asks him as she points to a picture of them all together building a sandcastle.

From there he recalls snips and strips of time like film shorts of his life, all behind his mind’s eye. He pushes it away to concentrate on what’s before him: John’s magical blue orbs filled with concern and worry and care. Inside his chest, Sherlock feels an ache. A longing. 

“What else do you have besides Benny?”

“Besides Benny?” John brightens. A reward for remembering its name. “I have this.” John picks up a book behind him and stands, then steps next to Sherlock and sits himself down on the floor in front of the makeshift bed. 

Sherlock holds his breath.  _ He knows that book!  _  The worn grey linen cover with gold debossed lettering.  _ Treasure Island _ . And when John hands it him, he begins to choke and shake.  _ He knows what’s inside! _  His blood pounds in his ears and yet he’s afraid to open it, but he does. 

_ He does. _

_ It’s the key.  _

_ He knew it was there. _  He knows it’s the key to it all. To the puzzle. To Mycroft. To himself. To the mess of a life that he can’t remember. He holds it up. 

A part of him wants to remember as his finger caresses the key, but the world suddenly becomes a fisheye lens and even as he touches it, it’s like his fingers aren’t his. Far off he hears John call him. He looks up and sees he’s right next to him, his hands on Sherlock’s face. 

“I want to remember,” Sherlock says, realizing his face is wet with tears and sweat. “I want to remember it all, but I can’t, but I can’t.” 

“Calm down,” John says. Their faces close. John’s thumbs brushes a tear away. Sherlock whiffs the mint and coffee on John’s breath.

John is so steady. So sure of himself. How can he be so sure of everything? John drops his hands, but he’s still close. Sherlock watches his lips with intensity. 

“He told me to keep it locked up,” Sherlock says.

“Who?”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock blinks. “I need to remember. I need to remember what this unlocks!” 

“You will. You’ve remembered so much. If you’re able, you will. If not, I won’t push you to anymore. Only if you ask. I’m sorry, Sherlock. Maybe I shouldn’t have shown you the book.”

“But I did ask. And I need to know.” He hesitates. 

The cat takes its paw, batting at Sherlock’s hand, desiring his attention. His heart races and pounds in his ears. “He doesn’t have a name! He needs a name, John!” He sounds too desperate, but nothing is as important at this moment than giving the cat a name.

“Well, we can name it something that you’re fond of or maybe what it reminds you of.”

“I can’t think of anything other than Tuna. You name him.”

“Tuna? That’s not bad.”

“You can’t be serious.” 

John chuckles. “Tuna it is until you can think of something better.” 

He likes the sound of John happy and would like to duplicate it. He plans to put it in one of his rooms to remember. 

Sherlock closes his eyes. He can’t name him Tuna. Names are important. He’ll think of another. His breathing and pulse return to normal. He can articulate what he wants. This time he tests himself. 

“I must know, John. It’s essential. You see, it’s all connected. My past. Pandora. The murders. My amnesia. And you know more than you’re telling me. Keep nothing from me. I must know, John...”

“You’re sure?” John asks. 

Sherlock sees the doubt in his eyes, but he sits up straight and does his best cold, glassy stare. 

“Very well,” John sighs, “This isn’t the first time you’ve blacked out a part of your life.”

A part of him already knew this.  “From my childhood.”

“Your mum told me. Not the circumstances, but it had to do with your sister. Something horrible happened, and you blotted it out of your mind.”

“I recall a fire.”

“That could be it.”

“The cause or...some other event at that time-- I can't access that part of my memory,” Sherlock says.

“Your parents tried to help you get your memory back, but nothing they did worked. Since that’s psychological, I’m almost certain the second incident is also. Your memory loss was tied to having failed in your mission. That added to your traumatic head injury, was enough to blot it right out of your mind.”

Sherlock sighs. “It wasn’t just a matter of failing. I made a choice to let it happen.”

“You let it happen?” John asks, shaking his head. “That’s from Kratides, isn’t it? I’d expect so...nothing you remembered, right?”

“You are correct, John, although I do have a strong sense that what she says is the truth in this instance.”

“What you don’t know is that Ms. Kratides has been laying the responsibility for the epidemic at your brother’s feet as well.”

Sherlock’s eyes light up. “That explains it! Why Mycroft’s name on his google search was so popular! He’s everywhere because she’s spreading misinformation through social media!”

“She’s feeding bogus stories from dodgy sources to some of the less reputable press too. And now she’s trying to frame you for Blackwood’s murder.”

“While framing me is part of her plan, it has more to do with manipulating me to work for her. Fortunately, you have proof of where I was at all times.” He winks at John. 

“Oi! Got me.” John scoots in closer next to him on the makeshift mattress. “Anthea got me to filch your account information from Beca.”

“I counted on it.”

“But Sophy has it too. Too bad you had to bin it. Mobiles are hard to come by.” John frowns. “She’d try about anything to drag you and anyone else down who gets her her way, including your family. What I want to know is what’s her motive? Power seems likely.”

“No. She has a reason. Power may be a part, but it’s not her motive.”

“What do you mean?”

“Think, John think! Why my family? While Mycroft had an enormous influence on world events, but to blame him for what happened? It has less to do with wanting power and more to do with revenge.”

“Sherlock! Anthea’s exact words were that Sophy wants destroy the Holmes family name! It makes sense!”

“My family name. I didn’t even remember it until I was told what it was a few weeks ago. Before, I doubt I cared.”

John turns to Sherlock. “That’s not true, you cared. You still do. I met your mum. Even if things between you and your brother were sore, you cared about her.” 

“What do these ‘bogus’ stories about my brother contain?” 

“The few skimmed through looked like conspiracy theories. I haven’t had the chance to read much with all that’s happened.”

“We must research that when we return to the flat.” 

“Brilliant!” John’s broad smile gives Sherlock pause. It’s proof John wants him back at 221b. 

“We already know she’s blaming him for Pandora, failing to contain the outbreak, and he’s possibly part of the cause. What I want to see is the evidence she has and find out her true motive.” Sherlock stares at one of his sketches of Mycroft pinned to the attic wall.  

“It’s ridiculous to keep blaming yourself for not containing it.” 

John is full of surprises, reading his mind like he does. It seems a shame to stomp on his illusions. “John, you’re not listening. I _let_   it happen.”

“Sherlock, listen to me,” John’s voice is sure, steady. “What happened— I know you’re a bloody genius, but there are some things you just can’t predict or control. If you really did make some sort of choice— and I’m not saying you did—- you really had  _ no _  choice. You were between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

Sherlock nods. He likes that metaphor. For some reason he feels calmer. He shouldn’t. “What else do you have of mine?”

“A magnifying glass. And your violin, but that’s with Mrs. Hudson.”

“A magnifying glass. I might as well inspect it.” Sherlock holds out a shaky hand.

John walks over to his coat and takes the spyglass from his pocket, then hands to him. Sherlock examines it. Not the same reaction as  _ Treasure Island _ . Instead, his brain tingles curiously. “I need to think…”

“You mean go into your mind palace?”

“My what?” he gasps.

“ _ Mind palace _ .  It’s what your mum said you called the place in your head with the rooms.”

“Yes!” he says and leaps up. His skin feels electric, like he’s pulling energy from all around him. John leaps up with him, he’s standing so close, his mouth just inches away. He feels his heat. John’s eyes flicker from Sherlock’s eyes to his lips, then to his eyes again. He thinks John is about to kiss him. Sherlock holds his breath, ready. 

John’s eyes go wide, then he stumbles back. 

“You should go into your mind palace,” John blurts out. “Find some answers if you can.” 

All the tingles and sparks shoot down through his legs into feet and discharge into floorboards below, the electricity drained in disappointment. 

Sherlock sighs and agrees he should try. Little ozone pangs of regret remain.

He turns the magnifying glass in his hands. He won’t look back up into those endless blue wonders, or he’ll never go into his mind palace. He settles and focuses on what’s in front of him. Behind the lens of his mind bees and butterfly wings, blood splatters and footprints, sea shells and grains of sand, clothing fibers and hair follicles. His mind palace takes him to where he first saw each of these. Away from Captain John Watson. 

_ Pity.   _ He’d like to know what those lips felt like on his. That would be a pleasant zap to his system! He wants to be burned alive. Instead, he goes inside the doors into his palace.

And while so much is still locked with whole wings left to explore, there’s so much to find and see. He can get into everything that is young Sherlock. His family history. The destruction of the family home. His sister who set it all on fire and was sent away. Eurus is her name. 

My, god, he remembers!

Sherlock doesn’t know how much time has passed when his eyes fly open, but John has waited. He’s waited and watched. John Watson is a marvel. He deserves an entire floor in his mind palace not spaces in a room! It is a palace, afterall. 

John has his sketch pad. It’s as if  John has read his mind. “Is this her?” John asks, flipping to a page and showing him.

Sherlock realizes he must have whispered her name. “Yes, that’s Eurus.”

“Your parents sure were brutal with names. Did you get beat up much?”

“Often enough, but it wasn’t because of my name. I went by William."

“Your mum called you Willie. Said you preferred Sherlock. That’s sure to get a boy teased. A bit not good even then, aye?”

“Exactly. John, I remember a lot of my childhood, the fire, some of university!” he grasps John’s arms and shakes him. “It’s all disjointed bits and pieces, but only a few weeks ago, I couldn’t remember anything.”

“I’d pay not to remember some of uni,” John confesses. “Sorry, rather insensitive of me to say that.”

“Not at all. I wish I didn’t remember some of it now that I have. Seems I wasn’t well liked, and not just because of my name.”

“You? Really!” John covers his face with his hands, hiding a grin. 

Sherlock wonders if John had meant to kiss him or if it was just wishful thinking. He doesn’t recall ever wishing for someone to kiss him before John. But John is special. He’s known that from the first day he chased John across the roof. He doesn’t realize that he’s staring at John’s lips again until John clears his throat and steps back. Time seems to be repeating itself.

“We’ll give you a few more hours rest. By then, Anthea should have rounded up Sophy.”

“Wishful thinking! I would assume Ms. Kratides is smart enough to be watching 221b and knows you have returned from your jaunt. She is long gone.”

“Do you think someone might have followed me here?”

“I’m certain you took proper precautions.” Sherlock heart palpitates as he invisions John crouching through Cardiff with the Sig Sauer in his hand— that same hand with the fine cauloses that scratched his scalp and took his pulse. That same pulse races as he thinks of it all. 

John clears his throat. 

“I assure you that we would have known by now if Ms. Kratides knew our exact whereabouts,” Sherlock says.

“Are you alright? You’re getting that look again.”

  
Ahh... _ Fascinating _ , Sherlock thinks.  _ I get the same “look” when I’m thinking of John as when I’m about to have a seizure. _

_ \-------------------------- _

 

**AUTHORS’ PLEA** (on behalf of Sherlock Holmes)

> _ Tuna _ ? Come on, Sherlock! That’s no name for a cat! *and he knows it* 
> 
> _ Please, please, please,  _ help Sherlock out. Sherlock is in a panic. His cat needs a name! 
> 
> Help make kitty cat and Sherlock happy and make some name suggestions in the comments. Give his cat a name…
> 
> The “winning” name chosen (by Sherlock) will be revealed in the next chapter.
> 
> _   
>    
>  _


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the following people who get honorable mentions and so kindly suggesting really awesome names for our cat in the story. It was really difficult for Sherlock to make a choice. He did narrow it down, then chose one. He's no longer Tuna:
> 
> Jane_Fairfax on AO3, Bella on AO3, Diana_Long on AO3, 1butterfly_grl1 on AO3, Humblegleeflower on AO3, Fallen0203 on AO3, ShakespearelovedLadyMacBeth on AO3, Eieye on AO3, Sebamher on AO3, One-lost-at-sea on Tumblr, AuroraBoreali on Tumblr, 221bsweetheart on Tumblr, Daisyfairy1 on Tumblr, Standbygo on AO3.
> 
> Finalist were: Badkatpat's Murder; Rosiepaw's Obsidian - "Sid" for short; Humblegleeflower's Sigurson (Siggy for short), and Jobooksadcoffee's Mr. Hawkins 
> 
> And the Winner is: Chriscalledmesweetie's Blackbeard (we included what you said about the name in the story).

_I really need to get control of myself,_ John Watson thinks. He licks his lips. _It’s not working._ The man just had a seizure hours ago, and instead of being his caring doctor, John is thinking of what it would be like to pin Sherlock’s arms down on that patchwork mattress and fuck him into it.

“I would feel more comfortable at our place,” Sherlock says, and John’s face heats up like he’s been caught. “When it gets light out, we should go there.”

“I’ll talk to Lestrade,” John says, relieved that Sherlock hadn’t noticed. “I am a bit wound up that he tried to arrest you.”

“It was your bloody jumper that put him on me,” Sherlock says.

“What are you talking about?”

“I heard Lestrade and Anderson talking at the Tower Building. He said they found a jumper with blood on it, but Molly had run tests and knew it wasn’t yours.”

“And you’re just telling me this now?”

“If you hadn’t noticed, I haven’t been able to articulate much until now. At least it’s not your oatmeal jumper.”

“I thought you hated this,” John says, looking down at it.

Sherlock sighs. “I has begun to grow on me.”

“Right,” John says, clearing his throat. “We’ll get who ever did it, but for now, you need more rest, no traipsing around Cardiff looking for Ms. Kratides or the bloody jumper killer. _Yet_.  And when we do—  I mean the ‘we’ part—  I’m coming along to keep an eye on you.” He can’t seem to help it. He does want to keep an eye on Sherlock for more than medical reasons. Sherlock has to know that. “We both should take a kip.”

Sherlock agrees. The cat already found the perfect warm spot to sleep curled up behind Sherlock’s knees. John is suddenly so, so tired. Sherlocks rolls over so John can lie down beside him, and John wonders if it’s an invitation.

He’s not sure it’s such a good idea to take a kip _with_ Sherlock. The cat doesn’t seem to mind though.

“We should to take Tuna when we go,” John suggests.

John tells himself he can do this. He sits down on the cushion, then lies flat on his back, keeping at least an inch of space between them.

“If he wishes to come with us, I would like that very much. But I wasn’t serious when I said his name should be Tuna,” Sherlock yawns, “He needs an appropriate name. One that fits him. Names are important.”

John stays on the edge of the makeshift mattress, and he closes his eyes. It’s all innocent. Sherlock just offered a place to rest, is all. He dozes off listening to Sherlock’s steady breathing.

Hours later Sherlock bolts up and shakes drowsy John awake.

“John!” he gasps. “I had an incredible dream! Mycroft was there. We were on board a ship together, and we were hiding in apple barrels just like Jim Hawkins! I overheard plans to mutiny the Hispaniola and get Captain Flint’s treasure! I think my subconscious might be telling me something.”

“Maybe,” John yawns and pulls the quilt over his head. “Go back to sleep and maybe the answer will come to you.”

“John! I know this is important. The apple barrels. The mutiny.”

“Oi! Give me that quilt!” John flails around, trying to get back what Sherlock’s pulled off him. “Go back to sleep. We can talk about it _i_ _n the morning_.”

“I can’t see why…”

“Sherlock! Sleep! _Now_!”

Sherlock does. Grudgingly.

John wakes all tangled in Sherlock Holmes: a leg thrown over his, right arm wrapped around him. He’s so bloody gorgeous that John can’t help but touch him. As he tentatively brushes against Sherlock’s long back, he admires the smattering of freckles. He needs to get up and use the neighbor’s loo but as he untangles himself, Sherlock wakes. The moan that escapes Sherlock sends blood and heat to parts of John that already are a bit stiff.

After they’ve “visited the neighbors,” they decide to take off for 221b. John gives Sherlock his meds first and watches the man swallow them down with a bottle of water. _To be that bottle_ , he thinks, then shakes his head to clear it.

Sherlock picks up his book, bear, and magnifying glass, shoving them in the abyss of a coat. The cat follows at their heels. After a few blocks, Sherlock picks the wayward cat up and carries him.

They’re over halfway to the flat when Sherlock brings up last night’s dream.

“It’s a metaphor. Someone betrayed us or I betrayed someone. Why else would I dream about a mutiny?”

“I have a repeating dream that I’m on a glass mountain, and people are throwing pickles at me. There’s nothing metaphorical in that.”

“John! The Freudian implications are enormous!”

“Don’t even start.”

“Our dreams aside then: I know my brother is alive.” Sherlock looks up at the sky, checking the rooftops and windows.

“What makes you say that.”

“Not certain, but in the dream last night Mycroft said Elvis is dead.”

“The dream again? Was that when he was in the apple barrel or walking the plank? What in the bloody hell does that even mean?”

“When I woke, I remembered Mycroft said those same words to me years before when he became a government official. For some reason one of his men brought up conspiracy theories and the long held belief Elvis wasn’t dead. Mycroft stated that in cases such as this, it’s human nature to confide in someone in one’s family that they are alive. If Elvis was alive, Mycroft reasoned, Elvis would have told a family member, and that family member would have told someone. ‘Loose lips, sink ships,’ as it were.”

“Or mutiny them,” John says, and bounces on his toes as Sherlock clears his throat. “Sorry.”

“Most people are what you call ‘rubbish’ at keeping secrets, let alone hiding them. It would be next to impossible for the average individual not give away the ruse. No one in his family _gave_ it away since there was nothing _to_   give away. Therefore, Elvis died on August 16, 1977.”

“Wait. So you think your brother? But he hasn’t ‘given it away’ to anyone in your family!”

“Yes, he has. He left a clue although my mum would not recognize it as such.”

“What clue? You weren’t even there. How could you even find a clue?”

“The book. _Treasure Island_.  We carved it out together. We put the key inside, but I never had the book. Mycroft kept it.”

“You’re saying that your brother put it there. In your room. That would mean...”

“He was there recently.”

“Brilliant!” John says, then thinks on it a bit more. “But why would your brother be so cruel? He let your poor mum think he was dead! She was in pain. And all those months he…”

“...looked for me...John he looked. Anthea told you he looked.”

That means that Anthea most likely knew Mycroft was alive too. It was all an act, which makes John’s blood boil.

They’ve stepped up the pace— John half sprinting to keep up with Sherlock’s long legs. Sherlock seems to be scanning the horizon. “How good are you with that service revolver?”

“I was a marksman.”

Sherlock flicks a look at John. “Excellent! I surmised as much from our last tight scrape. Your keen eye and steady hand transcend more than the medical. You are an amazing set of contradicts, Dr. Watson.”

“Healer and soldier at your service.” John shifts around to look back at him. Any excuse to take in more of what’s around them. And Sherlock.

Sherlock motions behind them. “We’re being followed. More than one. Quite possibly just watching our progress. The actions do not appear threatening, so they may be Anthea’s men.”

“Let’s hope they are Anthea’s. I can only shoot so many people at a time.” John gives a pained smile. “It’s good we’re almost home.” At least there’s that. He so much wanted to be home.  

“One’s ahead of us, then the one behind. I believe I’ve seen some motion on the rooftops.”

John’s heart quickens as he looks around at the roofs. Most are framed flat, some angled like a shed, and a few are gabled. He sees some movement atop too. They continue at the same pace as two men shadowing them keep their distance.

Two blocks from the flat, their shadows step out into the light. The one behind moves faster while the one ahead slows. Another appears from inside of a building to the left and moves in. They’re being boxed in. Sherlock nods and John reaches carefully behind him for his Sig Sauer.

“No need for that, Doctor Watson,” a man’s voice comes from the right. He steps out from behind an old police box.

John takes one look at him, and throws his head back and rolls his eyes. “Your mum is going to kill you,” he growls.

“But I’m already dead. You know how that is, don’t you, brother dear?”

“You’re going give him another seizure,” John says, shaking his head as he looks the dapper man up and down. It’s not what a person normally wears in this neighborhood. “Is that an umbrella?”

Mycroft looks at him and scratches the back of his neck. “Yes. Is that a cat?” Mycroft asks, nodding the ball of black fur in Sherlock’s arms.

“It's Tuna,” John says.

“I don’t think that’s an proper name for a cat,” Mycroft says.

“We haven’t decided on a name. Yet,” Sherlock says, rubbing the cat’s head.

“Nom de plumes run in the family. Please choose wisely,” Mycroft says, bending and squinting at the cat, who hisses at him. “He’s certainly not a Tuna, more like a Purr-anha.”

“I never thought I would be castigated for choosing the name of a pet,” Sherlock says, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you even recall the row we had naming Redbeard?”

“Are you two really going to stand here argue about what to name the cat?” John asks.

“On that note, I do think we should step inside this establishment and have a chat before we draw attention.”  With that Mycroft and his men lead them into an old cafe, long since abandoned but appropriated for this little meeting.

Some quick cleaning had been done: floor swept and tables dusted. Mycroft’s men guard the back and the outside of the front entrance. Mycroft pulls out a seat but remains standing.

“Afraid we don’t have any amenities to offer,” he apologizes. “I would so like tea and biscuits.”

“Couldn’t we have had this meeting at our flat?” John asks.

“Mrs. Hudson’s does make a fine cuppa, but we can’t have all those eyes upon us! I’m surprised you’d suggest it.”

“How would you know how Mrs. Hudson’s makes her tea?” John asks.

“Do you plan to tell us why we’re here sometime soon?” Sherlock asks. “ _Tuna_ is getting impatient.”

John holds back his laugh. While he wants an explanation, he loves how Sherlock is smirking. The cat meows, and Sherlock gives him an appreciative scratch on the head. Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“We’re waiting…” John says.

“It’s so hard to get things done in the limelight,” Mycroft bemoans. “It all went to Hell, when I became a public figure. It fell on me to run the country—  I’ve always preferred to work behind the scenes, pulling the metaphorical strings. As soon as I knew I could no longer hide behind a wall of anonymity, I had to seek other means to go about covertly.”

He clears his throat and looks directly at Sherlock, ignoring John, who is becoming angrier by the second.

“You, my little brother, provided me with the answer. Your disappearance proved advantageous. Once I knew you were safe and in hiding, I did the same. Beyond recall, as it were. I am so sorry to have caused you…”

But Mycroft never gets out his last words. John sees red. His heart pounds.

“Blood hell!” John shouts.

As Mycroft moves to sit down, John pulls back his fist and slams Mycroft in the mouth. The cat yowls and leaps from Sherlock’s arms. Mycroft flies back and lands on top of one of the tables. John’s hand feels like it’s broken, but it’s worth it. Hitting Mycroft didn’t cool him down enough, however.

Mycroft’s men rush forward and grab John by the arms as he lunges after Mycroft again.

“You let your brother live in an attic without a memory or medical attention so you could play puppet master?!” John shouts.

“And Mycroft! _You_   upset my cat!” Sherlock adds. John looks over to see Sherlock on the floor coaxing the cat out from under a table.

“My little brother has been in much worse places and in much worse condition,” Mycroft says.

“You bloody cold fish!” John struggles against the men holding him as Sherlock passively turns his head to watch the scene. “You know your mum almost died thinking her last words to you were cruel! They weren’t cruel enough!” John catches his breath. “What a tosser you have for a brother.”

“Yes, people have often said as much,” Mycroft says.

“I mean _you_ , not Sherlock, you fuck.”

Mycroft ignores John, turns to one of his men, takes a hanky the man is offering, and wipes the blood from his mouth. “I do believe my front tooth is loose.”

“I’d like to loosen a few more for you,” John grumbles.

“You may release him. Enough of this petty bickering. I gathered you both here to speak in private. I’m not about to let Sophy Kratides know I’m alive and kicking. Not just yet. As much as you hate it, Dr. Watson, mum’s the word. I do mean _Mummy_ . Do NOT breathe a word to her. That woman could _never_ keep a secret. Thank goodness our father handed down the ability to keep _our_ mouths shut, Sherlock?”

He looks at his younger brother closely as Sherlock stands slowly with the cat in his arms.

“You haven’t said much about _your friend’s_ behavior,” Mycroft demands. “I’m not sure I approve of the company you’re keeping.”

“I’ve said nothing at all because John is his own man. He does not answer to me, and he certainly does not need my approval as I certainly do not need yours,” Sherlock huffs out. “For someone who says he knows how to keep his mouth shut, you seem to say enough for a roomful of people.”

“That’s more like my little brother. Next you’ll be poking at me about my weight and eating cake.”

“Enough about cake. Does Anthea know you’re alive?” John asks, arms crossed.

“No. She does not. Years ago I would have told her, but she...how do I say it?”

“She was getting too attached and people would know you were alive because she couldn’t hide it,” John added.

“So right, Dr. Watson! Maybe he is good for something besides being a crack shot and personal physician. You may keep him little brother.” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“You keep calling me little brother, but it doesn’t feel complimentary,” Sherlock says, taking a seat on an old iron cafe chair.

“And not something he keeps. I’m not his cat,” John adds.

“He is my friend. We work together.”

“Your friend! The Sherlock I knew had no friends.”

“He does now,” Sherlock snaps back. “And a cat who hates you.”

“You are getting to be your old self in some regards!” Mycroft sits down across from him. “Our Anthea has proved to be a very resourceful woman. I underestimated Anthea and Mr. Lincoln.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I hardly think you would surround yourself with idiots. The fact that she and Lincoln survived the havoc after the epidemic should have been a clue that they have superior minds.”

John hesitates then pulls up a chair next to Sherlock. The cat burrows inside his coat.

“How much do you remember, Sherlock, of the week before Pandora struck?”

Sherlock clasps his hands behind his neck. “Nothing.”

“That is a problem. I do need that key.”

Sherlock eyes go wide. “Oh! I have the one you left for me,” Sherlock reaches inside his belstaff and pulls out his worn copy of _Treasure Island_ and opens it. The skeleton key looks out at them all.

“That is a key, and it is important, but it’s not the key I need-- that key is inside here.” Mycroft leans across the table and taps the side of Sherlock’s head. “It is a blueprint. A treasure map. A genetic marker. _The key_.”

John stares at Mycroft. Even now he is trying to manipulate his brother with puzzles and pirates and chemistry.

“A genetic marker…” Sherlock spreads his hands out on the table. “...is a needle in a haystack.”

“Ahh, yes, and which needle is it?” Mycroft says. “The Black Death was a form of natural selection. Beneficial genetic versions persist of the Black Plague. I’m sure you both understand the implications of those statements in contrast to Pandora. Other versions of the Black Plague tend to disappear as those carrying them died.”

“I’m no genetics researcher, but isn’t it near impossible to pinpoint positively what genes are selected when it comes to something like this?” John asks. “Genes vary from one individual to the next.”

“True. But not as difficult in the inverse when the marker is preselected,” Sherlock says. “The trick is when different strains of virus simultaneously infect the same cell in a body, they may undergo genetic reassortment and mutate.”

“We believe that the pandemic was created to target those with a ‘common’ specific genetic marker and developed so it would be less likely to mutate when introduced to other viruses. You and I dear brother, along with our mother, did not have this common marker. Our father and sister were not as fortunate.”

“You think Sherlock discovered the marker it targeted,” John says.

“I know he did, but he was doing far more than that,” Mycroft turns to his brother. “You disappeared after you went undercover into the warehouse where we believed the virus was stored. Your last message to us confirmed you’d found it. You relayed to us that canisters were set to be shipped to five points of origin: Paris, New York, São Paulo, Tokyo, and Beijing. We did not hear from you again. We assumed you must have been discovered. We know Pandora began here in Cardiff that very day.”

“Then I did cause it,” Sherlock says, hands clenched tightly.

“No, you didn’t,” John snaps.

“Do you think you were alone in that warehouse? Others were nearby. When they reached the place where you’d sent the last message, you had disappeared along with the five canisters. All the information you’d retrieved from the lab on a previous mission was wiped systematically.”

“So you assumed he was dead.”

“Yes. There was an enormous amount of your blood at the scene. We feared they dumped your body into the bay. We searched.”

“You must have had doubts about me,” Sherlock says.

“I did not. In the end it was terrorist act, and you were simply in the way.”

“This genetic marker,” John says. “You want to know what it was.”

“We have determined which marker. We want to know how they did it-- the key as it were.”

“What bloody difference does it make now?” John asks.

“The purpose behind Pandora is why this is of utmost importance. When it came to creating the genomes, the common genomes targeted could be viewed by some as undesirable.”

“Could be?” John says.

“Pandora left the world in chaos with some ready to step into seats of power,” Mycroft says. “While we did not stop Pandora, we can stop those who created it and coveted that power. We can possibly find an antidote if they try such a thing again.”

“Blackwood,” Sherlock says, “was a part of it.”

“Yes, dear brother.”

“I don’t see that anything much has changed as far as power,” John says. “Sure it was chaos for a time, but no dictator stepped in. The world seems to be running much the same.”

“It depends what your definition of power is,” Mycroft says. “Businesses and property has changed into the hands of a select few. Your freedom is an illusion. Sometimes power rests on a grander plane of reality.”

“Sounds like the same world to me. Maybe it’s you who’s worried that he’ll lose power.” John turns to Sherlock. “Exactly who is your brother anyway?” John asks him.

“What makes somebody ordinary?” Mycroft poses to John, changing the subject.

“Why would you continue to insult someone who hit you in the mouth?” Johns says and Sherlock laughs. It comes from his belly and it’s long, loud, and it makes John feel like he owns the world.

“I don’t mean you personally,” Mycroft says, exasperated with them both. “What does makes one person ordinary and another extraordinary? Is it mappable?”

“You mean genetically?” John asks. “That’s what you’re getting at? I read a study about genius genomes once. It’s been years. What are you suggesting?”

“I’m not suggesting. It’s already been suggested for the world to see. The latest online information with lies filtered in with some truth, and the truth is that Pandora’s Box was opened up and released targeting those with a specific genome— one that almost everyone had.”

“I hate to burst your bubble, but that means I should be dead. I’m ordinary.”

“Oh, but you’re not!” Sherlock says. “Not at all. Mycroft has already commented on how you’re not.”

“That’s fucked. My wife was a genius, and I’m certainly not! She died. I didn’t. My daughter never even got a chance to be extraordinary!”

“There are many forms of extraordinary,” Mycroft says, and John wants to pound his face until it’s a bloody mess. “Common does not necessarily mean one is unintelligent. You know that, doctor.”

He turns to Sherlock. “If you should remember anything essential to Pandora, you may reach me through Anthea.”

John lets out a disgusted huff. “I knew it!” John says. “She did know!”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “Unless you have more questions for me, you may be on your way.”

“I guess we’re being excused then,” John says.

“Come, John,” Sherlock says, standing up with the cat cradled in his arm, purring. “I wish to got home.”

 _Home_.  John loved the sound of that. They said goodbyes to Mycroft and left for 221b.

 

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
> 
> <New Entry>
> 
> <Set to Private>
> 
> The Cat Who Came for Dinner and Stayed (and other Guests not as Welcome) 
> 
> Sorry that it’s been a day or two since my last entry. Life has been seriously busy, and Sherlock is back in his room upstairs! Sherlock, the madman, has been getting himself and our new feline flatmate, Blackbeard, acclimated to 221b.
> 
> I must say the name Blackbeard is a better than Tuna although Sherlock almost kept the silly name since his brother “abhorred it.” The cat’s new name  does fit him. Sherlock agreed, saying that “*Blackbeard is a proper pirate’s name.” Seems that old Blackbeard is living up to his namesake as he’s captured Mrs. Hudson’s heart and stollen my chair. Let’s hope he doesn’t try to take anything else of mine!
> 
> This morning I woke up to Blackbeard with his motor on high, ramming his head into mine. He usually kips in Sherlock’s room, meaning Sherlock didn’t budge when the cat yowled in his bloody ears. When his master didn’t wake, the cat came into mine to roust me. I most probably can get rid of my alarm clock since he’s loud enough to wake Mrs. Hudson in the flat below. Not that I think Mrs. Hudson would mind at all. She’s already bringing Blackbeard tuna on a platter like he’s the King not the bloody pirate he is. Six in the morning is not what I think is a grand time for breakfast. Blackbeard’s just as demanding as his master. Although compared to the other Holmes’ brother, Sherlock is the Mother Teresa of thoughtfulness.
> 
> And about the brother. It seems he’s alive unless I decide to throttle him in the future. People can call Sherlock a posh egotistical arse all they want, but he’s nothing compared to bloody Mycroft Holmes.
> 
> Sherlock and I have done some detective work over “brother dear.” Seems there’s all sorts of theories online about how he caused Pandora, from being behind secret medical testing and trying to thin the population. I hope this puts to rest Sherlock’s beliefs that he caused Pandora. At least Mycroft did that much for his brother— told Sherlock he wasn’t to blame.
> 
> It’s nice having Sherlock back in the other room puttering about even if his chemistry experiment did fill the flat in a cloud of smoke and ash an hour ago. Mrs. Hudson is still grumbling on about it.
> 
> There are still times I want to call him Willie like his Mum. I’m glad he’s here. It makes the place feel more like a home.

 

*Thank you to Chriscalledmesweetie for Blackbeard’s name and this tagline!

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

“He’s asked for my help,” Sherlock says simply and takes a bite of his fried bread dipped in egg yoke. The hearty fry up John provided this morning is much more than Sherlock is used eating in one sitting, but not wanting to insult John’s gesture, Sherlock stuffs in another mouthful.

Blackbeard weaves around and around the legs of Sherlock’s chair, waiting for a hand out. Sherlock slips him a taste of his bacon back, and the cat takes it as an invitation and leaps into Sherlock’s lap for more.

Over the last few days Sherlock has settled in nicely to John’s moods and rhythms. He loves reading with him by the fireplace in the evenings. When John’s at hospital, Sherlock has replayed in his mind palace John’s uppercut to Mycroft’s face. Each time he does, it has the most curious effect on him. He’s thinking of just that moment when John speaks.

“He didn’t say it,” John says.

“Mycroft did. Yesterday morning.” Sherlock knew Mycroft timed the visit to coincide with John's departure to hospital.

“Is he calling you often?”

“He stopped by here. He said he will come back today. I really think he just wants more of Mrs. Hudson’s tea and biscuits.”

“He came here? Yesterday? I thought he didn’t want to come here because he thought he’d be recognized.”

“He was in disguise.” Sherlock smiles, raising an eyebrow.

“Disguised? How?” John leans back in his chair.

“As an elderly gentleman caller,” Sherlock says, simply. “For Mrs. Hudson.” With a stodgy mustache, fringe of grey hair, wizened face, gainly walk, and a too-large coat, Mycroft held no resemblance to the the man they were introduced to just days before.

John barks out a laugh. “That explains how Mycroft knew she made an excellent cuppa!”

“It does indeed!”

“I didn’t expect he would be at the table too,” John says.

“Are you referring to Blackbeard or my brother’s ubiquitous presence?”

“The cat. Mycroft. Both.”

It should have been unsettling for Sherlock to see Mycroft again, but having him in this flat felt oddly familiar. Sherlock generally tries not feel anything. John feels enough for the both of them. Meeting with his brother in this place, John’s hallowed ground, put Sherlock at ease. He felt almost happy. A curious feeling for Sherlock.

“I shouldn’t have to point out that helping your brother didn’t work out so well for you last time,” John says.

Even as he hears John say this, Sherlock knows John would never shirk his duties to family or friends.

“You’ve been doing well these last couple of days. No headache,” John says, setting his fork onto his plate. “The less stress you’re under, the faster you’ll heal.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

Even if John says he disapproves, John’s eyes tell Sherlock that if roles were reversed, John would indeed help his brother.

However, when John digs in his heels, Sherlock has noted that John is near impossible to budge. In situations such as these, Sherlock has noted that only emotional appeals work on the man. Appeal to logic? Bah! But a logical fallacy to emotion? Pathos works almost every time on John Watson.

“Any other memories creeping into that big brain of yours?”

“I retrieve more and more about my childhood daily. I found that having Mycroft here pulled data from my cerebral cortex most efficiently.”

“What else do you remember?” John says, finishing off his his grilled tomatoes.

“Mummy read to me often, but in the vein of fairy tales, nursery rhymes, Beatrix Potter and such. It was Mycroft who read the adventure books I loved most.”

“And _Treasure Island_  was your favorite.”

“Also Verne, Melville and the like,” Sherlock says.

“I see you tried reading some of mine.” John nods to his collection. He’s done with breakfast and clearing off the table. Sherlock stands and helps.

“Some good reading on your shelves,” Sherlock says diplomatically, scraping the plates off into the bin. “Although the James Patterson novels you have are rather predictable.”

“I see that you find Lestrade’s cold case files more to your liking.” John points at the coffee table.

“Much more. You can leave the dishes. I can do them later.”

Although he’s been back at the flat a few days, Sherlock hasn’t returned to Barts despite Beca’s insistence that Sherlock’s help was needed. Instead, he’s puttered about on the new mobile Anthea provided, chatted Mrs. Hudson up, pampered the cat, and spent hours with Lestrade at Cardiff Central Station. He’s got Lestrade sorted out or at least appeased regarding Lord Blackwood. Sherlock provided his electronic alibi, handing over his mobile tracking records. If not for the proof from Anthea provided, Sherlock would have spent another evening in a jail cell.

Anderson wasn’t pleased, but Lestrade ignored his insults especially after Sherlock pointed out the telltale scratch on the Blackwood’s neck, and how the receptionist at Capital Tower had freshly done nails. Sherlock told them to search for bits of nail near the body. They’d found a nail sliver. When the receptionist had not shown up for work the next day or any day thereafter, Lestrade directed Sally Donovan to her home where her son said she’d gone to “to visit her sister in Newport.” Donovan did retrieve DNA samples from her home. It was a match. They seemed to think they had their serial killer. But Sherlock did not think they were one and the same although he had no doubt that Sophy Kratides was responsible for Blackwood's death. Proving that, however, would be much more difficult.

He also solved a few cold cases and aided Lestrade with a few new ones. A fine distraction for his mind. Anthea’s visits were stimulating as well— especially after John told her that Mycroft was alive. It seems she’d like to punch Mycroft as well.

Sherlock blinks when he hears John clear his throat.

“If you won’t listen to my advice, you better include me in on this so-called help your brother needs,” John says, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

“I do say, we might want to do some redecorating.” Sherlock walks out into the livingroom and struts around, hands behind his back.

John follows and takes a seat at the couch, looking up at the clock. “That’s not going to work this time,” John says.

“Whatever do you mean?” Sherlock picks up a framed photo of John’s mum, looks at the back, then sets it down, continues to roam around the living room picking up knicknacks and other objects, inspecting each, then setting them down one after another.

“You’re trying to distract me.” John takes a sip, following Sherlock with his eyes from over his cup. “Exactly what _are_ you doing?”

“Checking for bugs,” Sherlock says, lifting up a lamp and holding up to reveal a small dot on the bottom.

“What? When were you planning to tell me this?”

Sherlock looks up. “Now.”

“Bloody hell! How long?”

“I’m not certain. I found four yesterday. They had to have been planted after I was with Ms. Kradites since I would have noticed them earlier. I always check.”

“You always check? Isn’t that a bit paranoid?” John scratches his chin. “After meeting your brother though, I see why you might be. Wait...that means he’s been listening to us.”  

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I do believe that is the purpose of such devices.” Sherlock carefully removes the bug with his fingernail, holds it up between his fingers to the light. He determines that it’s like some of the others. “There are two distinct types.”

“Ms. Kradites too then!’ John says.

“Or Anthea.” Sherlock sets the tiny device on the end table and smashes it with his thumb.

“Do you think there are more?”

“That’s the last one in this room I believe, but I haven’t checked your room that closely.”

John frowns and purses his lips. “That means you’ve been in my room. Before. You’ve walked into my room and looked through my things and…”

“I’ve done it numerous times.”

John pinches his nose and sighs. “I suppose you _should_   finish searching it. I have a half hour before Mike picks me up. If Mycroft is stopping by, maybe I will tell Mike not to bother. I can go in later. It’s not like it will cost Mike anything. Beca’s been giving him money for petrol since he’s been using it to cart patients around.”

“No need to do that. I can handle my brother.”

John sucks his bottom lip in as he leads Sherlock into his room. Sherlock doesn’t expect to find a bug, but given the liberty to peek around with John’s approval, he takes advantage. John is a fascinating study. Always surprising and contradictory. Sherlock really does think his reading material in his bedroom is eclectic: from Tolstoy to Fleming to...what’s this under his mattress? A gay porn magazine?

Very eclectic indeed!

John eyes widen as he swipes the copy of Back Door Boys from Sherlock’s hand. John’s cheeks and neck turn red. Sherlock heart begins to thud against his chest.

“I think we can safely say there’s no bugs in this room,” John says, shoving the magazine back under the mattress.

“It looks clean. They must have assumed nothing of interest happens in here,” Sherlock says.

“Oi! That’s rude!” John blurts out. “I’ll have you know plenty’s happened in this room.”

Sherlock has no interest in other entanglements John has had on this bed. “It’s been sometime though I see. The magazine has been put to good use.”

While Sherlock appreciates John’s blushing, he can’t help be frustrated at how John can be so obtuse at times. How does John not understand that Sherlock’s comment was a hint? Sherlock would love to make lots of interesting things happen in this room and in John’s bed. He was so sure that John was interested in a sexual relationship.

On to other more pressing issues. Sherlock spins around and inspects John’s dresser.

Mike is knocking at the door, and John hollers for him to come in while Sherlock rummages through his mind and John’s pants drawer as to what he’s to do. What is the best approach to capture John’s interest? How is he to set Mycroft’s name right? Does John ever wear these red pants? Should he let John help him clear his brother’s name? Why should he even care to help Mycroft? John wants him to care. Sherlock is surprised to realise that he cares as well. He would also like to see John in the red pants.

He needs more information from Mycroft. The only reason he’s tolerated that man’s aloof and arrogant presence is to understand their shared past.

He also needs to see how far these lies went, and how far Ms. Kratides has gone.

Then there were the murders, and how he was pulled into it all. Almost planned—  as if someone wanted the detective’s attention. And he _is_  a detective. His purpose fills him from his toes to the top of his head. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever remember what happened to cause his memory loss. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever remember those blank days and hours leading up to what happened. But what he does know is that he is Sherlock Holmes. He knows who and what he is. That’s more than he’s known in the last few years.

He also knows that John Watson is one of the best things that has ever happened to him. He is a force. John is _his_ force.

Sherlock recalls the locket at the bottom of Sophy’s dresser drawer.

Still, there might be something a bit not good about getting sexually aroused watching John punch his brother. Or smelling his red pants.

“Sherlock! Out of my room! Now!”

He hears John talking to Mike. And someone else. Sherlock steps out into the living room to see all three men at the door.

There stands Mycroft in the same disguise as he appeared to Sherlock yesterday— his rumpled, gentlemanly continence a juxtaposition of his former self.

“Mrs. Hudson has gone out but will be back shortly, and her Mr. Lewis Gilbert stopped by. He thought you’d like some company for a bit, Sherlock. He suggested that maybe you and he could share a cuppa,” John winks, then speaks loudly to Mycroft, as if he’s half-deaf. “How’s your lumbar feeling today, Mr. Gilbert?”

“F-fine. Fine.” Mycroft hesitates, affecting a brittle, raspy tone.  

John turns to Mike. “He’s been having terrible pains,” John explains. “I checked him just yesterday.”

“As a favor to Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock adds, “I do think he may need another look.”

“Would you mind, Mike, telling Beca I’ll be in a bit later? It seems I have a patient to attend to here.”

“She’ll be peeved again that you’re seeing people outside of hospital again, John. You know she tells you to make them go to the clinic,” Mike says. “But I understand. I’ll invent some story as always.”

“Ta, I’ll see you in a bit. Tell Beca I’ll be there in time for my rounds.” John gives Mike a wave and shuts the door.

“Where ever did you come up with that atrocious name?” Sherlock says to Mycroft.

“I’m impersonating one of my past assistants. He was a kindly gentleman— too, too good for this world. These were his clothes.” Mycroft wrinkles his nose. “In these trying times, I am afraid we all must make sacrifices. Speaking of sacrifices, I see _you_  are still wearing those gastly scrubs!”  

“They are comfortable, and I, unlike you, can carry off any attire and look rakish. You’d look like a blue baboon my scrubs.”

John smirks into his hand.

“Enough of your petty remarks,” Mycroft says. “I’m here to get your answer.”

“You could have texted,” Sherlock says.

“You might not recall, but I do prefer calling or speaking in person, especially since there is much more to discuss. Now that you’ve cleaned this room proper, we can talk,” says Mycroft as he wipes off the kitchen chair with his hanky before sitting down.

“Oi! It wasn’t that dirty!” John says.

“He means the bugs, John.”

“You did bug the flat then,” John says.

“He’s one of those who did,” Sherlock says, crossing his arms.

“Most certainly, Sophy Kratides planted the others. I had the flat cleaned, and she’s managed to put in new ones. I will cut to the chase. I need help finding her connection to Pandora,” Mycroft says. “I also need you to remember the sequence key, but since that portion of your memory may never return, we must, in your own words, ‘deduce what happened using the evidence provided.’”

Sherlock and John join Mycroft at the table. Blackbeard hisses at Mycroft, who ignores the gesture. At first. Then the cat jumps on the table and hisses in his face.

“I cannot fathom why Mrs. Hudson would allow this... _cat_  on her premises,” Mycroft says to John.

“John brought _me_  home,” Sherlock interrupts, “and she let John keep me.”

“Certainly a woman of such impeccable taste would not want such a vile creature around her person.”

“She likes the cat. Possibly more than me.”

John ignores Sherlock, turning to Mycroft. “How do you propose we do all that you suggested?” John asks.

“Sherlock will need to use his talents and make Sophy believe he not only wants to work for her, but that he shares the same goals.”

“You want him to do what?!” John voice raises. “Do you remember he still recovering from his head injury?”

“Please, Dr. Watson, I am well aware of his medical issues.”

“But you don’t care, do you?”

“I care about a good many things in this world, Dr. Watson— mummy and my brother are at the top of my list. I do not need you to judge me, and I do not care what you or the world think of me,” Mycroft says. “I do care, however, who is in charge and what the person does with that charge.”

“If you care about Sherlock, really care, you wouldn’t put his health at risk.”

“I wonder how well you really understand my brother...or yourself. Sherlock is in love with danger. He lives for the rush, the adrenaline racing, his heart pumping. Danger is the force that drives him. That same force drives you, Dr. Watson. I have seen your army record. You took just as many unnecessary risks as my brother. I do not think that has changed.”

Sherlock watches as John gathers himself, then looks to Sherlock. “He’s correct,” Sherlock says.

“I do care,” Mycroft states. “However, sometimes there are ideals and principles more important than our punny lives. Unfortunately in this world, people will not listen to reason unless one is respected, trusted, or feared. I need people to listen. To do that, I will need my name cleared and those who smeared my name cleared _out_. If Sophy Kratides isn’t responsible, she knows who is. She wants Sherlock to work for her. Although she will never trust him, she needs his talent desperately enough to take a chance and let him into her circle. Once there I have the utmost confidence that Sherlock will learn all he needs to set our world straight again.”

“There you go again! Putting the weight of the world on his shoulder!”

“John. I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself,” Sherlock says, then turns to Mycroft. “How shall I help?”

“Don’t you mean how shall we help?” John interrupts. “I’m not letting you do this without your doctor.”

“And I would not want to do it without my doctor!”

“Do not be ridiculous,” Mycroft says, sneering. “Sophy has no use for him.”

“She would have the perfect use for John,” Sherlock says, “but it may mean putting John in harm’s way.”

Mycroft’s eyes light up. “She could use the doctor as leverage against you! This could be used to our advantage! This may be an excellent idea after all.”

 _Oh, but it may not be,_ Sherlock thinks and shakes his head. _Mycroft understands me too well_. As much as Sherlock would love experiencing the game with him, he cares for John Watson. He knows that Sophy could make him do about anything if she threatened John. But John is smart and resourceful. He could be an asset to Sherlock undercover. They would have to play this game perfectly to convince Sophy. In his mind’s eye, he sees himself working side by side with John Watson. Suddenly every object in the room is clearer, brighter. Every sense heightened, heart pounding in his ears, he wants to solve this with John at his side.

“It could work,” John says.

There are times when Sherlock is annoyed that John states the obvious, at other times, he wants to applaud.

“It could,” Sherlock says. “It’s ‘we’ then. How shall _we_?”

“It is advantageous that I have— at least up to the last few minutes—  CCTV footage of you the night before you disappeared, Sherlock. I would like you to watch it. You may observe something we did not detect.”

“Or it could jog his memory,” John suggests.

“I need you to draw Ms. Kratides out of her inner circle. If we expose them in a public manner, there can be no mistaking where the blame rests. After that, I can tie up any loose ends.”

“You Holmes brothers always have an ominous way of stating things.”

“The footage and other materials will be in your hands before the end of the day.” Mycroft stands. “I am also grateful to you, Dr. Watson, for helping my brother.” Mycroft reaches out to shake John’s hand. John does so, reluctantly. “I do not hold that punch you gave me against you.”

“I still can’t say I’m sorry I did it,” John says. “You do intend to speak to Anthea?”

“Ah, yes. Anthea. I spoke to her. I did need a bit more concealer to cover _that_   bruise,” Mycroft says, touching his cheek.

John gives Sherlock a grin and conspiritority nudges him in the ribs.

“I am glad a part of you remembers me,” Mycroft says to Sherlock.

“I do remember you, but you were a lot... younger. With more hair.”

Mycroft ignores the insult and walks to the door, stops, then turns. The end of the cat’s tail flicks back and forth, then he hisses. “Did you at least select a respectable name for the creature?”

“Yes, I did,” Sherlock says. “Blackbeard.”

Mycroft’s eyes light up for a second time. “That is a most superior choice,” he says as he opens the door. “You may keep him, but do teach him better manners. Until next time, dear brother.”

“Until next time,” Sherlock replies, with that, Mycroft leaves.

“You don’t think he’s going to visit Mrs. Hudson first?” John asks closing the door.

“And miss out on biscuits and tea? Of course he is!”

“I probably should let Beca know I’m not coming in today,” John says.

“And why would you stay home?” Even as he says it, Sherlock regrets John’s crestfallen face.

“I want to see that CCTV footage and find out what Mycroft has planned for us.”

Sherlock nods and bounces on this toes. “You may be of help.”

“Do you think Mike bought the excuse?” John asks.

“Of course he didn’t.”

Sherlock begins to wash the breakfast dishes as John settles in and turns on his mobile.

“Wait! I have a new internet wifi access option...it says from this flat! How?” John sits back, he holds out the mobile as if Sherlock could see it from the kitchen. Then Sherlock spies John’s eyes light up in an explosive flash of realization. “Oh! Mycroft!”

They spend the rest of the morning reading and researching at lightning broadband speed. Sherlock jokes with John, and John winks back at him. John is flirting. At least Sherlock thinks he is.

The familiar steps of Mrs. Hudson echoe up the stairs. She pops her head inside.

“These came for you special delivery.” Mrs. Hudson hands Sherlock a plain manilla envelope like it’s something she gets in the post every day.

Sherlock opens the envelope. A flash drive falls out into his palm. He pulls out some papers.

Mrs. Hudson shakes her head. “I don’t ask questions,” she says, scuttling out. “Not my business,” and shuts the door behind her.

Blackbeard makes himself at home in John’s chair while John slides out his laptop. They sit down on the couch side by side. Sherlock reads the papers, then hands them to John.

“It seems Mycroft thinks I should resume employment at Cardiff Royal Infirmary. I need to become more visible there. We also need to appear to cut ties with Lestrade, I’m afraid.”

John nods, scanning the document. “You okay?” John asks.

Sherlock assesses himself. “Resting heart rate, 45. Close to normal. Breathing rapid, but within acceptable range. I suggest we watch the video.”

“Alright, then.” John clicks on video file. There’s also folders with documents. The images on the screen are dark and difficult to make out at times but a moment later, Sherlock sees himself on the screen clearly, walking near the Cardiff docks. He’s wearing his Belstaff but beneath he’s wearing crisp dress trousers and a dark shirt. He’s a stone heavier.

One CCTV camera merges to another as he continues to walk. It seems Mycroft’s men have spliced together the footage which follows Sherlock to a business near the harbor. He hides behind discarded shipping crates as three men pass by.

“Bloody hell. The docks,” John says, sitting forward to look closer.  

Sherlock suddenly can’t contain himself and leaps on top of the couch. “There!” he says, jumping and bouncing. “They are all wearing the Barba Napoli shirts!”  

“What?” John says, then suddenly a moment of clarity. “The same shirts as the victims of the serial killer?! It’s related?”

Sherlock eyes grow wider. There behind his past self on the video in large, white helvetica font painted on the side of the building is “Bocks Pharma.”

“It’s connected! The name of the company on the business card! Bock!”

He jumps down and grabs John’s shoulders. “Box? As in Pandora’s Box?”

“No. B-O-C-K-S,” Sherlock spells out. “ _Bocks Pharmaceuticals_. John, there are no coincidences. Later this business merged into the Andropa Institute. An anagram for Pandora!”

“My God, Sherlock, you’re right.” John pauses the video. “Look, behind you on the screen. That sign! Sherlock, how did you know all this? You remember!”

“Part of this I learned when I was with Ms Kratide’s. The other? I think somethings may be returning from that night.”

He sees himself stop and observe the ground. Looking for footprints or tire tracks? No. An object that’s been dragged. He sees the marks. Or does a part of him recall this? A body. No, something larger. Bulkier on some sort of pallet.

“Tanks,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Um. You’re welcome?”

“No, tanks, as in canisters that were to be used as the method of dispersion. I am tracking it. Look! See the marks on the ground!” Sherlock taps the screen.

“This is incredible. What else to you remember?”

“John, I think I’m either hyperventilating or having a heart attack.”

“At least it’s not a seizure. Lie down.”

 _Lie down_.

He knows John Watson has had lots of experience with sex. He was married. Had a child. He was in the army. John told Sherlock, he was bi-sexual. John has had lots of sex. He’d even read some of John’s blog about how he was referred to as “Three Continents Watson.”

 _Lie down_.

Sherlock on the other hand, doesn’t know how much sex he’s had. If any. He knows he never had sex as a teen. Although he doesn’t want to believe he’s still a virgin, he doesn’t recall having sex. Ever. He supposes it’s possible he’s gone on all these years without but not probable. It’s something he could ask Mycroft— don’t brothers exchange sexual exploits? But he can’t imagine Mycroft ever having sex. Mycroft certainly acts as if he has no interest in it.

Looking at the concern shining down at him from John Watson’s eyes, Sherlock wants to experience sex. Lots of it. With John. That’s why when John tells Sherlock to “lie down,” it’s like a Pavlovian bell goes off that's connected to his penis.

The scrubs reveal the evidence, and Sherlock hand flies to cover it. Too late. John has noticed and licks his lips.

Sherlock’s erect penis becomes the positive stimulus as John inches closer. John’s eyes linger on the tent in Sherlock’s scrubs, then at Sherlock’s mouth. Just at the moment when John is about to abort, Sherlock grabs his t-shirt and applies positive reinforcement to John’s lips. Unfortunately he’s not quite sure what to do once said lips touch, but Sherlock is keen to strengthen the said behavior. With that, Sherlock responds and moves his lips. Then John’s eyes flutter and they both moan. John’s tongue tests Sherlock’s upper lip. He opens his mouth and…

Mouths open, tongues war, John’s weight comes to rest completely on top of Sherlock, and John begins to rock into him.

John is brilliant! Why did it take them so long to do this?

Then John stops.

“I’m sorry we shouldn’t be--” John bolts up.

“Why not?” Sherlock reaches up and wraps his hand loosely around John’s wrist.

“I’m taking advantage! You have a brain injury!” Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You are not taking advantage. Despite my injury, I do understand what I’m doing.”

“What if you have a boyfriend...or girlfriend or some other person you don’t remember?!”

“I remember enough of my recent history that I am certain no such person exists.”

John straightens his back as John attempts to do the same with his inner resolve.

“We should take it slow.”

Sherlock sighs at the cliché comment, but agrees, more for John than for himself. He’s not completely sure John’s reluctance is about Sherlock. John has lost so much. He risks losing it all again if he puts his lot in with Sherlock.

The tingle lingers on Sherlock’s lips.

“We should finish the video and…” John suggests.

“John, please. We will.”

They do.

They watch the rest, then kiss as Sherlock searches the internet. He finds falsehoods and little evidence. All between quick gropes and burning lips. Investigating was never so stimulating! When John sends Sherlock off to bed, Sherlock is hard and needy, but he doesn’t ask for more. Not until John’s ready to give it.

Sherlock remembers taking himself in hand when he was a teen, recalling that the experience was as much mental as physical— fantasy the very essence of the erotic excitement.

Now, he wants to explore the limits of his desire, and that desire centers around John Watson. What might John’s calloused, compassionate hands feel like? Sherlock relishes this as he takes his own cock in hand and strokes the length with his long fingers. How might John’s mouth feel? How would those lips look around Sherlock’s cock? How would it feel to have John breech him, take him, fill him with his perfect cock?

He comes thinking of John Watson. He hopes soon he’ll come with him.


	16. Chapter 16

 

 

> The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
> 
> <New Entry>
> 
> <Set to Private>
> 
> A Night to Remember
> 
> I may have done the maddest, most insane thing of my life or the most brilliant. Either way, my life will have changed after this night. I snogged Sherlock bloody speechless, and that’s an accomplishment.
> 
> I’m afraid I can’t give too many details here since he’s sure to read this. Yes, I mean you, Sherlock. Basically, I’m saying that it was one of the best snogs of my life. But please Sherlock, don’t get your head too all blown up about it. On the merry-go-round in Primary, Little Cindy Lynn Schuster bested you.
> 
> But I had to write it down here because I want you to read it. You need to know you’re important and that I want this or whatever it is even though I could do without that brother of yours. For your sake, I’ll try not nut him again.
> 
> As for letting me in on your ‘grand plans,’ you need to tell me. If not, I’ll assume you don’t trust me. Did you READ that Sherlock?!
> 
> And when you’re done with my laptop, please turn it off and recharge it. Thank you.

 

He falls sleep, thinking about Sherlock and taking chances. 

The next morning, he wakes to knocking on the door and muffled voices. John staggers out in his old flannel bathrobe. With coffee in one hand, Sherlock stands next to the flat door in his old blue dressing gown and scrubs. A second later, John is jarred awake with a huge hug from the inspector.

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders awkwardly as he observes the two.

“I’m so...relieved.” Greg pulls himself together. God knows John’s seen Greg lose it before, but he’s surprised that he’s the cause. “You hadn’t stopped around, so I thought I’d stop by yours. When we found your jumper covered in blood, I thought I’d lost one of my best mates! I was never so relieved when Molly came back with the labs that the blood wasn’t yours.” He embraces John again in another suffocating hug.  

“Ta. You can let go now.”

Greg steps back and straightens his coat. “Sherlock answered most of my questions regarding what happened to you. Something about that Anthea woman— the one who nosed around a bit too much— and taking you to see Sherlock’s mum. But I do have one question for you. Why do you have a cat?” 

“We don’t. The cat has us. You should have already met him,” John says. “Being that you’ve been here to see Sherlock.” The black cat stretches, then curls around Greg’s ankle and rubs its whiskery face against Greg’s leg.  

“I kept him in your room when Lestrade came,” Sherlock says.  

“No need to do that. He seems to be getting on with Greg. Better than—”  

“Blackbeard!” Sherlock interrupts. “His name is Blackbeard!”

John snaps his mouth shut and kicks himself for almost slipping and mentioning Mycroft’s name, leaving Greg to look at them both quizzically.   

“Any sign of Ms. Kratides?” John asks, thinking fast. 

“As expected, she’s not to be found. You still haven’t heard from that Anthea woman?” Greg asks. 

“No,” Sherlock answers for John.  

John looks down. So this is the new game they’re playing? _Pretend_? 

“Haven’t heard a word from her,” John lies. He looks up at Greg, who is squinting his eyes at John. 

Greg sighs, knowing John is holding out on him but doesn’t push. “You look well for being recently abducted,” Greg observes.

“Ta. I did get to meet Mrs. Holmes, the family home, and get insight into our detective.”

“I’ve gotten some insight too over the last few days,” Greg says. “It seems Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective for Scotland Yard, has landed on his feet much like this lucky cat. He’s been a help cleaning up a few of our cold cases. He’s bloody talented.” 

Sherlock puffs up a bit, and John grins. John spends the next half hour filling in Greg (at Sherlock’s expense) about his trip to see Mummy. He makes sure to tell Greg a very embarrassing story from Sherlock’s childhood that Mrs. Holmes referred to as “The Mystery of the Missing Mahogany Table Leg,” involving cucumber sandwiches, peacock feathers, and a newly modeled peg leg from said dining table. 

Through it all, Sherlock just grimaces and acts a bit uncomfortable. John feels it too— not from sillys stories, but from memories of the night before and wondering what happens next. He thinks of ways he’d like to kiss those lips again. When Greg mentions some cold case Sherlock cracked, John switches to more current topics of interest, which unfortunately returns Greg to Anthea and Sophy.  

He keeps most of what he knows about Anthea to himself since it seems Sherlock doesn’t want to share. There’s not much more Sherlock does share about his time with Sophy, and John notes what little Sherlock _does_   reveal to Greg. Of course Greg asks him about any returning memories regarding Mycroft or Pandora— something John is certain Greg has asked Sherlock a number of times already. Sherlock is not forthcoming.  

“I should be getting ready to go to hospital,” John interrupts.  

“Cardiff Infirmary would go to pieces without you,” says Greg, half joking as he playfully cuffs John’s shoulder.

“It would. He has a superior _bedside_   manner,” Sherlock remarks.  

Greg hears the innuendo in Sherlock’s voice and his mouth falls open as he looks from Sherlock to John, and John feels like he’s been caught making out with the his best mate’s sister. His face heats up despite the fact they’ve only snogged.  

But Greg doesn’t know that. Sherlock crosses his arm, stares down Greg, then Sherlock raises an eyebrow and smirks like the cat that ate the canary. Does he actually think that Greg has interest in John? That Sherlock needs to mark his territory?  

“We had another murder last night,” Greg says, trying to smooth over the tension in the room. “Other than Sherlock’s cryptic message— that’s the reason I came this morning. The victim is in the morgue. I’d like to enlist your help, Sherlock— unofficially, that is. Similar to the arrangement you had with Scotland Yard.” 

Sherlock pretends to look disinterested, but John knows better. The last few days working with Greg on cases has ignited a passion in Sherlock. John’s living room wall has once again become Sherlock’s pin board of clues. 

“Discreetly, I might add,” says Greg. “In light what’s been revealed about your brother no matter how erroneous it is, there are still people who believe that rubbish. Consulting detective, is it? Interesting occupation.”  

John turns to Sherlock. “Wait... _what_   cryptic message?” 

“Something about inside information regarding a few of my department,” Greg says. “But Sherlock didn’t say who or give any specifics.” 

“I have reason to believe you’ve been compromised, but until I can confirm my suspicions, I don’t want to cast anyone in a false light. You should watch for anything odd or out of the ordinary with your—” 

“I can’t say as I like being kept in the dark,” Greg frowns. Sherlock just ignores Greg’s stare. 

“I know the feeling,” John adds with a sigh. 

“I’d like to know who I can’t trust,” Greg says. 

“I generally don’t trust anyone,” Sherlock says. 

John clears his throat.  

“I said generally, John.” 

“I’ll see you at the morgue then? Molly will be ecstatic! I’ll let you two get...dressed.” 

The words bring a blush to his cheeks, and John shakes his head.  

—————————————-

John hasn’t been tested this much since he was in uni. Sherlock Holmes presents one exam after another. Each time, the course changes.  

As for the cryptic message and who might be compromising Greg’s department? Sherlock says it has to do with _the plan_. Sherlock remains vague as to what that plan is, what is being compromised and who. 

John decides the best way to get Sherlock to explain is to state the opposite. “There is no compromise,” John says. 

“I didn’t say there was no compromise! There are many members of his department who are taking bribes and favors.” 

“But you suggested something more sinister.” 

“Yes. It far more.”  

And that’s all John gets. 

Cryptic messages? Plans? Of course no one tells John a bloody word about the details. It seems to John that Sherlock tells John as little as possible regarding possible outcomes and solutions. At least he knows Sherlock tells John more than he tells anyone else.  

John thinks back to all he knows regarding Ms. Kratides. Mycroft said Sophy is biding her time. They need to draw her out.   

“I know you and Lestrade are good friends,” Sherlock says. “I hope what I do will not compromise your _relationship_.” 

“What are you implying?” 

“Do you know how often he touches you? He hugged you! Twice! He punched you in the arm,” Sherlock says quickly.  

“Greg and I have never been anything _but_ friends.” 

“That is good.” 

“And I don’t like lying to my friends.” 

“I understand that, John. But this is necessary. I’m creating tension in Lestrade’s department to make my move that will  _help_ him in the long term _._ To do that I much make Sophy believe. I want Greg and everyone else to think I don’t trust them. As for Lestrade, it will not seem so out of character on your part when you follow me now that he knows our... _circumstances_.” 

“Circumstances? Circumstances?!” John bites back a bark of laughter. “You mean our snog?” 

“I believe Lestrade believes we’ve gone a bit further than snogging.” 

“Yeah, he does. You’re telling me that chest thumping was about your plan? Is that the story you’re going with now? It had nothing to do with you being jealous?” 

It’s Sherlock turn to blush. John likes it on him.  

“I also found listening devices in Lestrade’s office,” Sherlock says.

John knows it's a distraction. But a good one.  “And you didn’t tell Greg, or remove them?” 

“You are catching on, John.” 

“This keeps getting worse and worse.” John rubs his face with his hands. The last thing he ever wanted to do is to get Greg caught up in all this. Greg is a detective, but involve him in this craziness? 

“It will be much more convincing to Sophy if Lestrade doesn’t know,” Sherlock explains to John.  

John supposes that later, Sherlock will rely on John to clean up the mess with Greg and get him on board without telling Greg too much. Not that John can give away what he doesn’t know.  

“When we’re at the morgue…”

“I will lay the groundwork, John. Then I will go to see Lestrade. It may get messy. I rather you weren’t there.” 

“Fine, just don’t get yourself arrested again.” 

Sherlock gives John a crooked grin.  

John hates deceiving Greg, but he understands it might be more convincing to an eavesdropping Sophy. So that means Sherlock will implement the plan at Cardiff Central Station.

“You will have to tell Lestrade we had no other choice but to do it that way.”

It also looks as if it will be up to John to wait to divulge the real plan to Greg later, in private.  John hopes that Lestrade will be in a forgiving mood after.

______________________

There was a bit of excitement, then all went back to normal, or as normal as a birthday party at Cardiff Infirmary could be.

They’d just missed Lestrade. John is certain that it’s intentional on Sherlock’s part. Molly told them he’d been to the morgue to check what, if anything new, Molly had found out.  

After some celebratory chocolate cake for Sarah’s birthday, Molly gives Sherlock a few welcome back kisses after he receives a welcome back pat on the arse from Sister Katherine. All John gets is a slice of cake.  

John follows an excited Sherlock and Molly to the morgue. The victim may not be wearing the same shirt as the others, but he fits the rest of the profile: same age, social status and physical characteristics even down to location where the body was found. Sherlock is less interested in the autopsy than in seeing the victim’s personal belongings. Shirt, socks, and undershirt in particular.  

“The victim is fastidious to a compulsive degree, yet he walked in his stocking feet. Where are his shoes?” Sherlock says, waving his arms above his head. “A button missing from off his sleeve? Must be recent. He has meticulously mended this shirt, quite expertly, here and here,” he says, pointing to two buttons. “Look at the thread, it does not match the other buttons. While the color is perfect, the fibers are less fine.” 

Of course the bloody genius can look at old socks, bits of thread, missing buttons and missing shoes, then deduce where someone’s been! He grabs John’s hand and the next thing John knows they’re racing down the streets of Cardiff. “To where the murder actually took place,” Sherlock rumbles.

It’s ordinary street in an ordinary neighborhood, Sherlock explains.  

“What’s not ordinary,” Sherlock says, “is that there is an intact glasshouse that’s in the center of the block, hidden away and protected. It holds all sorts of exotic flowers and attracts bees.” 

“And you noticed this, what, from the petals on his socks!” 

“He must live in one of the adjoining houses to know about this. It’s a well-kept secret.” 

“That you know about, of course.” 

“Of course!” He smiles rakishly at John, then jerks his head to follow him up the fire escape, long arms and legs climbing. John climbs up behind, rung by rung. 

“This reminds me of the first time we met. No hopping rooftops this time!” John says watching Sherlock's are from beneath as they climb.  

“I promise, none.” Sherlock laughs and to John he sounds almost giddy.

“Shouldn’t we call Greg?” John asks.  

“My goal is to make him angry. Leaving him out of our adventure will be a good start. That and the note I wrote and gave to Molly to hand him.” 

“More cryptic messages.” 

“Always.”

Cryptic is exactly how John feels following this mad man. “You really need to let me know what’s happening.”

“All in good time.” 

As they climb onto the roof, it’s all John can do not to grab Sherlock’s coat and shake some sense into him. Or pull him in and kiss those perfect lips. Instead, he follows across the top to the other side where there’s a set of tiered fire escape stairs. John is relieved it’s not another ladder. John looks down from the roof and appreciates what’s below: a glasshouse that fills most of the courtyard. Through the glass and cracked vents John sees the lush greens but also bright flowers. Firecracker reds and brilliant shades of purples, oranges, and yellows. The sun’s rays bounce off the glass in rainbows of light.  

“Most of the flowers chosen for the hothouse attract the butterflies and bees housed within. Note how the vents are covered in fine mesh. I stumbled upon it in my study of the city, its streets and hidden spaces. It’s the only place I can recall that a person would have those particular flowers during this time of year on— as you pointed out— their socks.” 

The black iron stairs echo as John and Sherlock step down. They take a short stone path that leads to the greenhouse. The door is latched, and Sherlock carefully inspects it and the white paint-chipped door before opening. They step into the oppressive heat into a protective vestibule between the outside and inside of the hothouse.  

Sherlock nods to a box left beside the door with the protective coverings to slip over their shoes left for those who visit. 

“Why did he take off his shoes?” John asks, curious. “He could have done the same.” 

“He took them off because there were none of these to he had.” 

“And he didn’t want to contaminate the hothouse.” 

Sherlock nods.  

It’s muggy and sweet as the step through the mesh door opening.  

It’s glorious inside with unusual butterflies dancing above and around and the hum of bees in the air. All around color from orchids and other flowers. John knows little about botany, but it’s a breathtaking sight. 

John no longer wonders why someone might be in a glasshouse in only an undershirt as he shrugs off his jacket, when he realizes something else—

“You said _deadly tryst_.” 

Sherlock gives John a wicked grin. 

"How?" John wonders where one could have...sex.

The bees buzz around their heads. One blue and green butterfly lights on John’s shoulder, and Sherlock’s eyes alight like a child’s. They look over the exotic and some common flora such as roses that John recognizes. The pots in rows, immaculately organized. Sherlock removes his Belstaff, and John his jumper, his undershirt riding up his stomach doesn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock.  

“It’s a common space for those living in the adjoining buildings,” Sherlock explains. “But there are a few older gentlemen who tend it lovingly. There are bee hives in the north corner.”  

“But if she killed him here,” John says, “how did she get the body out without anyone seeing? Unless...she’s not working alone.” 

“I’ve already said as much on numerous occasions. Do keep up,” Sherlock says. He looks all around him.  

“And I know you’ve asked yourself the same question, why here?” Sherlock waltzes down the aisles and throws his arms around, ranting with the bees and butterflies avoiding his space. “This is a place I frequented. The victim was also familiar with this oasis, hence the removal of shoes— which I’m sure by now you realize that the murder took with her. Do you know what this means, John? She has been watching me before I even met you. I felt it, but dismissed it as paranoia at the time. I was always careful, but there were moments. John! She wants me to know that she’s followed me! This is her message!”  

“She killed that poor man just to make her point? Seems extreme.”  

Sherlock thrusts his coat into John’s arms, then kneels down to look under the benches. “It serves a purpose. Think John! In Lord Blackwood’s case, his death settled some sort score with her.” 

“Maybe this victim is a witness like the others.” 

Sherlock stands and steps next to him. John recalls kisses as sweet as the blooms surrounding them.  

“A man-made oasis,” Sherlock seems to be saying to himself. “And she’s inviting me in.”

“What?”

“He’s not a witness. He never worked for the pharmaceutical company,” Sherlock says, spinning around. “She killed him here, in this place, to make a point. To me. To the victim. She knew I would know.”  

“A warning?” John asks, still holds Sherlock’s coat.  

“No, an invitation. It’s part of the game.” Sherlock leans down again, this he picks up a large, black button. “Mine,” he says, picking up the sleeve of his Belstaff that’s draped over John’s arm. He compares the button for John’s benefit. “I thought I’d lost it from my coat a few days ago, but it seems that Ms. Kratides nipped and planted it here.”

“Nice replacement. I couldn’t tell. Wait...she’s trying to frame you again! It’s a dangerous game she’s playing.”

“That it is.” He stands and walks over to a bench filled with Chinese hibiscus. Bees buzz around large red and lavender blooms. “Here.” He reaches down next to the bench and picks up a small, white button, then holds it out for John to see.

It’s a match to the one on the victims shirt cuff.  

“I don’t recall how I felt about it, but I do know this is one I intend to win. I have an idea, John.” Sherlock flips the buttons in his hand.  

“What?” Finally. He’s going to tell him the plan. All of it. But he doesn’t expand.

Of course he’s still not going to share his bloody plan! They leave the greenhouse behind, and John asks again twice before they get to the flat. Still nothing from Sherlock.  

They’re back inside the apartment when John turns to Sherlock and asks him what he half suspects. “You really don’t have one, do you? A real plan?”

 Sherlock sneers at him a bit, then presses his is finger to John’s mouth to silence him.  

Sherlock removes his coat, then searches the room as he did before, inspecting under and behind lamps, tables, picture frames.

John waits until Sherlock nods to him that the room is clean. “Other than riling up Greg and making it look like you’re on the outs so Sophy can hear you through her listening devices, you’re just flying by the seat of your pants, aren’t you?”

“We gain her confidence,” Sherlock sighs, putting on a bored face. “We find her connection to Pandora. We find out what she knows about Mycroft that leads her to believe he caused it. We stop her from killing again.”

“You’re saying it’s possible that what she’s putting out there about Mycroft is actually true?” 

“Finally, John. You understand.” 

“You think it is...true that is.” John sits down on the couch. “At least some of it.” 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I need more time. I shall see Lestrade tomorrow. First I needed time to dwell on the note.”

“And what was in that note?” 

“The details. The who and what. Some truthful observations about some of his officers and the consequences that will follow if Lestrade does not act on my observations. And also a hint about what his role is in all of it.”

“What! You’re insinuating the most honest person I know is...not honest? How will that get Sophy on your side?” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Despite what it may seem, Sophy Kratides main motivation is justice.” 

John blinks. “Wait! That was her last text to you…” 

“Yes. _Justice_. She especially despises those who are expected to uphold justice and break that trust. That is part of why she despises Mycroft.” 

“Yet she doesn’t hold herself to those same standards.”

“Ahhh, but she isn’t one charged to uphold it!”

“You think if she sees you making Greg’s life miserable and putting Cardiff Central Station into massive turmoil, she will see that as a sign.” 

“I am certain.” 

“Why would she even care?” 

“It has to do with a woman in a locket.” He closes his eyes. “A locket I found at the bottom of Ms. Kratide’s dresser drawer.” 

“It’s not only my drawers you nose through. You do like sorting through other people’s things.”

“I do. And thank you, John. I read your blog.” 

John was wondering when Sherlock would bring that up. “Why is the lady in the locket important?” 

“She’s the other reason why I believe she hates Mycroft. She lost her love to Pandora, and she blames my brother for not stopping it.”  

“That’s why she’s so interested to know what happened that night. Why Mycroft said that you could be in danger if you remembered. It might make you just as guilty in her eyes.”

“You are correct, and that is the problem I face. There is so much I do not know.” 

The moment Sherlock sits on the couch next to him, he goes right into his mind palace to try to find answers, and stays inside its walls even after John calls him for dinner. It’s only beans and toast, but it’s food. After another few hours, John finally decides to get some sleep.  

He wakes to a melancholy melody. Sherlock is playing the violin. _His_ violin. John stumbles out into the livingroom to see Sherlock in front of the window. John steals silently into his comfy old chair, crossing his legs. This isn’t the same Sherlock who John saw play not a few weeks before. This is a Sherlock with his violin. He doesn’t simply hold the bow— the bow becomes his arm. He draws it across the strings in a cosmic dance, his body sways in time. His form hums and sings its own tune. As his fingers glide up and down the neck, his eyes flutter, the corners of his mouth curve into a playful smile, his head tilts. The melody becomes a seduction: the pull and moan of his music ignites John in a way he’s never experienced. John marvels at Sherlock’s long, agile fingers, his moist lips.

John never says a word and waits until Sherlock sets down his bow. He can’t believe how breathtaking Sherlock looks with the window’s night lights illuminating his profile.

“It helps me think.” Sherlock tenderly puts his violin back in its case.  

“It has an altogether different effect on me,” John admits. Sherlock head pops up. He takes six long strides to John in his chair, then falls to his knees between John's legs and lays his head on John’s right thigh while his bow hand creeps up the other.  

Sherlock inches up John’s inner thigh between John’s legs. All John can think of is how seconds before those hands were on the violin. He wants to be that violin. 

He brushes his index finger along John’s length.“And what a delightful effect my playing has on you.” John bites his lip and moans. Sherlock slips up between John’s thighs and then up to John’s lips and bites them too. John pushes up against Sherlock’s hand, every muscle in his body screaming, “touch me.”  

“I’ve thought a lot about this,” Sherlock says, “and I deduced that you are what I need. I want you.” 

John is gone. He kisses Sherlock, all inhibitions down, want open and acknowledged. His tongue flicks around the corner of his mouth until it opens in welcome, then he pummels the inside and flicks its tip against the roof of Sherlock’s mouth, sending a shiver through the man. He pulls his mouth away and nibbles his chin, his neck, then takes his mouth again.  

The way Sherlock’s hands feel on him, it’s like everything good that’s ever come his way is happening all at once: that cup of tea at the right temperature with extra buttery scones, that sublime back rub, that steaming hot morning shower. It’s that perfect. And his body aches for more. He doesn’t think it could ever feel better until Sherlock pulls down his zip. He’s hard, so hard. His heart beats faster than hummingbird wings. 

Long fingers, careful and exploring, play him instead of the violin. His unconventional grasp, unravel him. He thrusts to the rhythm Sherlock’s created. It’s the hottest hand job he’s ever had. He comes moaning into Sherlock’s mouth. After lips part,  John looks down at those lovely hands coated in him. He’s marked Sherlock. He reaches between Sherlock’s legs. He’s just as hard, he pulls Sherlock up to his feet, mouths reconnect, then he looks into Sherlock’s eyes for permission. 

“Please, John.” He lies Sherlock down on the couch and scoots next to him thigh-to-thigh. John fumbles at the waist of his trousers. It’s an odd angle, but he manages. He gets the button open and pulls the flies just far enough to get his hand inside. Sherlock's cock twitches beneath his fingers.

Sherlock’s head dips to watch John under the gentle insistent pulls of John’s hand. John kisses the perfect bow of Sherlock’s lips and lets his tongue part them. Sherlock tilts his head and brings their tongues together. 

Sherlock tenses, and at first John fears he’s pulling away—  that this is all too much for him. Then Sherlock’s spine lifts in invitation. He stifles a cry, and John thinks again, maybe it is too much. But Sherlock own hand joins John’s with a growl, and he thrusts through their fingers. John’s free hand grasps Sherlock’s soft, silky curls. His own breath breaks, and he shivers along with Sherlock as he comes in his hand. 

They lie side-by-side almost tumbling off the couch but hold each other in place. Neither one wants to be the one to let go. 

John finally relents. “I need to use the loo.” He pulls himself up. “Then you?” 

Sherlock nods and nibbles his bottom lip. “I trust you, John. Hope you know that.”


	17. Chapter 17

John would think it’s a bit creepy. But as Sherlock sits lotus, watching John breathe, Sherlock understands himself much better. Sherlock wants what he never knew he wanted. 

Not long ago in this very spot, he watched John Watson. Then Sherlock attributed his fascination as macabre— a serial killer stalking his prey. He was so wrong.

As he studies, a secret smile appears on John’s lips. His eyelids flutter. It's a good dream. Sherlock hopes that smile is for him. Sherlock smiles back, and it doesn't matter that John can't see. Curled up on the bed, equally entranced is Blackbeard.

Sherlock always knew dogs smiled but can now attest that cats do too. Blackbeard sits, tail motioning his new master’s sleeping form. They’ve been watching together for hours. While Sherlock isn’t licking his paws or cleaning behind his ears, he occasionally stretches his back against the door frame like a cat.

John said, he trusted Sherlock. He must prove that trust— with the best plan possible.

He's afraid because so much could go wrong. 

He’s been researching and thinking for hours. Checking, rechecking his data. When John finally begins to stir, Sherlock stands up and starts the coffee.

Listening to the brewing pot, he thinks it’s a good plan, as far as plans go.

John always says he’s brilliant and clever. Sherlock loves those words. He preens and purrs at them. Sometimes he thinks he may be too clever. John believes he’s going off with Sophy along with Sherlock. Just how keen would John be to know he was the bait, the final nudge, to get Sherlock’s supposed cooperation from her? Mycroft understood Sherlock’s intentions regarding John and his plan. John did not.

He pours John’s coffee and carries it to the bedroom.

No. John would not like the idea. He’d be unhappy, but he’d do it. If, however, Sherlock doesn’t tell him that part of the plan? He’d be more than unhappy when John found out the truth, he’d be furious. Most likely Sherlock would become the second Holmes brother to get a punch in the nose from John Watson.

John sits on the edge of the bed, hair sticking out, two days worth of stubble on his face, and eyes drowsy. Sherlock’s heart actually skips.

“Good morning, John,” his voice rumbles as he hands him the steaming coffee.

“Ta," he says, taking a sip, "you are an angel.”

“Other than Mummy, I don’t believe anyone has ever referred to me as an angel.”

John rubs his chin with the same hand his coffee is in, almost spilling it.

"They should," he says as he takes another sip.

It seems John is just as distracted. Sherlock can’t forget last night, the couch. John clears his throat. "I need a shower," he says. He stand and walks into the bath and turns on the water. With his coffee.

Sherlock decides to see what Lestrade is up to and sits on the couch with the laptop in his thighs. It’s too easy to hack into the Cardiff Central’s database. After this is all over, Sherlock will have to let Lestrade know where the weaknesses exist. Until then, Sherlock needs access.

Not long after, Sherlock looks up to see John stepping from the bath freshly shaved with a towel around his waist, empty mug in hand, skin and all golden and glorious. As John pours another mug, Sherlock checks the status of a blog he’s monitoring.

“Ta, this is good.” It seems everything is good to John this morning. He should tell him now, when he does think it’s all good.

“I think we should expect a visit from Mycroft before I go down to the station,” Sherlock blurts out. John cringes. He doesn’t want John to get dressed, but he doesn’t want John prancing around Mycroft in a towel either— not that Sherlock needs to worry that Mycroft would be interested in his John.

At least he doesn’t believe Mycroft would be.

John changes into his oatmeal jumper and some worn, soft jeans and makes breakfast. Sherlock is ready to tell John between flipping eggs and making toast when he hears footfalls on the stairs along with the tap of a cane. Mycroft is early! Sherlock wants to ignore it, but John insists they answer the door. Blackbeard helps, greeting Mycroft with a hiss, then races down the stairs to Mrs. Hudson’s.

“I see Sherlock was put in charge of teaching the cat manners,” Mycroft sneers.

“He’s off to finagle food from Mrs. Hudson. Much like you do when you stop by,” Sherlock says. “Have you put on a stone or is that the disguise you’re wearing?”

John rolls his eyes and motions for Mycroft to take a seat at the table.

“Would you like to join us for breakfast? Coffee?” John asks.

Sherlock shakes his head but stops when he catches John’s disapproving eyes.

“Why thank you, John. At least someone has manners in this home other than Martha.”

“Martha?!” Sherlock says with obvious false shock.

With a smirk, Mycroft intentionally takes Sherlock’s seat at breakfast. Sherlock cinches his dressing gown tighter in frustration and pulls one of the two extra chairs against the wall to the table.

As he eyes his brother warily, he detests the fact that Sherlock’s superior mind doesn’t understand Mycroft as well as one brother should understand another. Sherlock recalls much of their childhood together, and later at uni when Mycroft “helped” Sherlock through his addictions. Watching the Mycroft sitting in his chair, Sherlock understands less and less of Mycroft’s motives. Does he help Sherlock out of obligation, to save face with his peers? Or because he genuinely cares? Why does he help him now? Is he helping Sherlock or helping himself? Sherlock wonders who his brother really is and what he represents.

Understanding his brother may be impossible. A paradox. Mycroft is an expert at hiding from the world. He’s hid from his own brother secrets that Sherlock is sure he’ll never uncover.

One fact he does know about his brother, Mycroft always believes his way is the only way. 

Why hadn’t he told John last night? As cliché as it sounds, he’d had the perfect opportunity, but he didn’t want to spoil the moment. That incredible moment on the couch. Together. Sherlock’s pulse quickens thinking of it.

Sherlock must to be the one to explain the plan to John. If, Mycroft reveals that John is to be used as bait, John will take it as a betrayal on Sherlock’s part. Mycroft may actually _want_  that to happen. 

“Before I feed you both,” John says, spatula in hand and holding out the pan of scrambled eggs like an offering, “tell me this secret plan. All of it.”

Sherlock stops himself from rolling his eyes. As if John threatening Sherlock with starvation would ever work! But Mycroft? Sherlock stares daggers at his brother. Mycroft needs to keep his mouth shut— at least when it comes to telling John the plan— otherwise, his brother is welcome to eat all the eggs he wants.

John expects to learn more, and he like a bulldog, he will not drop the topic.  

“I was about to tell you before Mycroft appeared,” Sherlock blurts out.  

John divides the eggs on the three plates and sets the toast on the table. He pulls up his chair between them.

“I listening,” John says.

Sherlock is about to speak again when his infernal brother butts in.

“As a good military man you do know that for security reasons information is withheld,” Mycroft says, takes his napkin and places it in his lap. “This is one of those times. It is a need to know basis operation. I— ”

“He _does_  need to know,” Sherlock interrupts. “I need him to know. We will tell John it all. We have determined how to set the trap,” Sherlock begins as he turns to John.

Mycroft sighs, picks up his fork, and inspects it. “One never knows with Sherlock where this may have been prior or the pan.”

“I washed that fork last night,” John says. “And the pan.”

“I suppose after all I have been through recently, I can live a little dangerously,” Mycroft says, taking a small bite of egg. “Very good.”

“Of course they’re good,” Sherlock says, “John made them!” This brother of his is infuriating. “Insulting John is not permitted,” Sherlock adds. “Only I may do that.”

“You never liked eggs!” Mycroft scoffs. “You fed them to Redbeard along with most of your meals. Mummy wondered for years why the dog was so fat. Yet you eat these...eggs as if they're ambrosia. What might one make of that observation?”

“My taste has changed as I’ve matured.”

“One might say your tastes _have_  changed,” Mycroft says, looking John up and down. “That aside, it would be much more effective if Dr. Watson did not know all of the details.”

“John will know,” Sherlock says, making the distinction. “And I will tell him.”

“Finally,” John says as he butters his toast.

“Very well,” Mycroft says. “If we must.”

“Not _we_. _Me_.”

Mycroft takes another bite of eggs, swallows politely, then nods, “Very well. Go ahead, dear brother.”

“I plan to draw Ms. Kradites out with the information that recently almost all of my memory has returned,” Sherlock begins, “and that I have remembered what happened. I will also hand Lestrade a list people in his department selling drugs and scarce commodities— most of which they’ve confiscated illegally—  then sell  for a tidy sum.”

“But it’s real.”

“Very real. I’ve noticed this over the last days I’ve spent at the department with Lestrade.”

“He might not be happy, but he needs to know who he can trust. We all need to know who we can trust.”

Those words make Sherlock certain his choice is the right choice, not Mycroft’s.

“John, I am sorry to say, but your blog is now online. Public. And very popular.”

John looks on, dumbfounded. “What? But that’s not possible. Unless. You?! Why?!”

Sherlock decides the best way is to show and retrieves the laptop from the coffee table.

“Not to worry,” Sherlock says, setting the laptop in front of John, “most of the sensitive posts I set to private; however, that will not stop Sophy from accessing the hidden posts and reading them, which is the true purpose.”

He waits for John to explode. It doesn’t happen. He does, however, look distressed.

“Look at this! And this,” John wails. “Wait! I didn’t want _this_ made public! How did you do this?”

“John, one simply back dates in WordPress, revises the date stamp and makes it look as though it had been set to private previously like the rest.”

“And that will work?” John asks.

“It will since I’ve just opened the site from private to public. No one will know the timing of any of the posts.”

“And this one! That’s not _mine!_  It’s outrageous! You turn the solution of finding Miss Lander’s toy poodle into something as grandiose as the return of the Crown Royal Jewels!”

“I thought you’d be proud how I captured your voice in your purple prose style,” Sherlock pouts.

“Purple prose is not a compliment, Sherlock,” John says straight faced, which worries Sherlock. He’d expected John to trying to throttle him at this point. Instead, John is eating his toast and sipping his coffee between intermittent outbursts and sputters.

“I backlogged a few new posts,” Sherlock explains. “She will see how valuable you are to me, read some interesting revelations regarding my past memories, and...considering what I’ll tell Lestrade, I expect her to abduct you.”

“You said it was popular,” John says.

“A respectable one-thousand hits in the first hour. I attribute it to the tags I added, but since then, people have shared, and you’re at over six thousand. Oh, now over seven!” Sherlock points to screen.

“My blog?” John blushes to the tips of his ears.

“You should read the comments.”

“Comments?”

“Molly, Beca, that _Sarah woman_ ,” Sherlock adds with disdain. “There's a comment from Mike. Along with others I have no idea who they are, the names are so obscure. Who would even call themselves ‘hugo_balls’?”

“Mike and Molly know about this? And Beca? I’m never going to hear the end of it…”

Mycroft, who Sherlock notes, has been observing the entire exchange with interest finally speaks. “In the end, we hope to do what Mummy wanted, to clear our family name and find who opened Pandora’s box.”

“Your family name cleared?” John continues to scan the posts, clicking backward. “That would be nice for your Mum, but that’s not why you’re doing this, is it, Mycroft?”

Finally, John is fuming. His face a bit pink. It’s intoxicating to see him flushed. Sherlock sits a bit closer, leaning into his shoulder. A jolt of electricity sparks between them. What magic!  

“I wonder if a lot of what happened was because of you and your machinations,” John says.

Mycroft ignores the anger aimed at him as he looks over John’s shoulder at the posts.

“Sherlock, I am concerned that Sophy may believe some your posts are bogus," Mycroft says. "You have described yourself in such over-flattering terms: ‘His eyes are like the ocean, the depths a reflection of his bottomless intellect.”

“Oi! I wrote that!” John says.

“I believe it will serve the purpose,” Sherlock says. “I know it will draw her in. After all, John’s writing is a bit romantic. It’s the same url the blog John used some years ago—  although he only wrote about mundane occurrences in his life, inconsequential, puny emotions about day-to-day drivel.”

“Hey! That’s my life you’re insulting.” John is resigned but still angry. Sherlock decides he rather likes the look on John.

“Not insulting. Stating facts,” Sherlock says. “Since I’ve come into your life, your stories are much more colorful. I added a bit of excitement.”

“I’ll thank you not to add any more excitement to my life. I may expire.”

But Sherlock is certain that John is not as excited about the plan as he was about last night’s hand job. And Sherlock then realizes, neither is he. As for expiring, that will be over Sherlock’s dead body.

—————————————

Sherlock stands in the horrid lighting of Lestrade’s office. Although Lestrade knows Sherlock has come here to expose a good many of his men, Lestrade would rather discuss John’s blog.

“You said you wrote some of this as a joke to mess with John’s head? The poor bloke! We need to talk more about your people skills, but you do have John’s voice down well. I can’t tell what’s yours and what’s John’s. You could be a ghost writer.”

“Why ever would I want to write as a ghost,” Sherlock huffs. “I’d be dead. How could an incorporeal being use a laptop?”

Lestrade begins laughing. “I love the description of his first meeting with you. Chasing you down...hanging by his fingertips. A sort of metaphor for your whole relationship, wouldn’t you say?”

“So, you’ve heard nothing of Sophy’s whereabouts?” Sherlock asks.

“Nothing.” Lestrade shifts in his chair. “Have you?” Lestrade asks pointedly.

“Nothing. But I _have_ remembered," Sherlock says. "Everything. It’s most disturbing.”

“Memory returned? I don’t suppose you care to share.”

“Not particularly, but I will share this list with you that I promised,” Sherlock says, handing the folded paper to Lestrade, who carefully unfolds it and frowns as he reads it over.

“This is almost a third of my department!” he says. “Are you sure this correct?”

“I can give you the specifics for each person. However, just one search of their desks and laptops will confirm the majority of it.”

“Most are minor infractions. A reprimand most likely would suffice. But this!” Lestrade barks out. “And this! How could I not know this was happening?”

“The very question I asked myself. What is the answer, Lt. Lestrade?”

Lestrade slaps the list down on his desk. “You’re suggesting I knew and did _nothing_?”

“I’m suggesting more than that.”

“Get out! Just get out!” Lestrade stands, slamming his fist on his desk.

Before leaving, Sherlock turns and asks, “Cards? Tomorrow?”

“Out!” Lestrade shouts, pointing to the door.

____________

Sherlock returns to the flat surprised to find John still in place at the kitchen table. Sherlock falls dramatically onto the couch.

John looks up briefly from his laptop, then down at the screen again. “How did it go with Greg?”

“As expected.”

Sherlock waits about ten minutes as John continues reading his blog and grumbling.

He’s being ignored. He doesn’t like it. “We do need to go to hospital,” Sherlock says. “I expect another victim by the end of the day.”

John sighs. “I don’t generally hope you’re wrong, but I hope you are. I don’t understand why it’s necessary to lie to Greg. He’d keep the secret. I know you wanted Sophy to overhear it, but we could have told Greg.”

“That would not have had the same result,” Sherlock says, jumping off the couch. “I needed the intensity of his reaction. With my accusations, he’ll be on fire to find those corrupt in his department. It will spread.” Sherlock spins around, arms in the air. “It’s confirmed in your blog. Some of those listed in his department work for Sophy. More importantly, someone more important than will Sophy hear about this.” Sherlock walks up to the table and crosses his arms looking down at John. He’s breathing hard, pulse racing.

Sherlock is about to step away when John lightly grasps Sherlock’s wrist and slowly raises from his seat.

“Wait,” John says, his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s mouth. “I’ve been wanting to do this since I woke up this morning.” He pulls Sherlock toward him as John stands to meet him.

Sherlock almost shakes his head— but he can’t resist John. When John slips one knee between Sherlock’s thighs and pulls Sherlock around the waist, he’s gone. With a feather touch, John presses lips together. Opens, then his tongue teases a moan from Sherlock.

A few minutes later, John pulls back. “When do you think she’ll make her move and try to abduct me?”

“You are asking me this now?” And just to make his point, Sherlock rocks into John and lets him feel how hard he is.

John bites his lip, then Sherlock answers hoarsely, “Soon.”

_______________

Molly is her old self. Mooning and following Sherlock around the morgue. Sherlock admits he did play her a bit when he first started here to get specimens and time in the lab to do his experiments, but Molly stood by him and believes in him, even when he doesn’t.

His mind circles and circles back around and around. He’s worried and not worried about Sophy taking John. He knows she will not harm John as long as Sherlock is of value to her. The trick is to get her on his side. To get her to reveal who is behind her. Or if she even knows. She may not realize what she does know.

Molly turns on the radio and tunes it to oldies, although Sherlock wonders what the term oldies actually means. Shouldn’t oldies be classical composers like Chopin not something called the Rolling Stones?

Listening to “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction” and “Paint It Black,” the morgue remains rather slow— a few straightforward post mortems. Causes of death, natural. They bag and label the clothing and personal effects. They leave jewelry on the bodies as always. He also decides that while The Rolling Stones aren’t truly classical, he’s going to learn to play “Wild Horses” on the violin.

It’s late afternoon, and Molly is singing along to some band name Nirvana. Sherlock decides he likes this band almost as much. The next body comes in: an older woman with a note sewn into her bra. It contains her name and address. Sherlock didn’t need to conduct an autopsy to confirm she had Alzheimer's.

After they’ve finished the autopsy, Molly takes a break, and Sherlock takes a seat on one of the stainless steel autopsy tables. He’s having a smoke when another body is wheeled in. Molly is still on break.

He doesn’t usually smoke but considering he’s on edge over tonight and all the possible implications and possibilities with John, he needs it. His heart pounds thinking of it without the nicotine, but at least his hands calm. He’s still concerned about the planned sting for Ms. Kratides, but focusing on what will John and he do tonight becomes his new obsession. Will it be more kissing, touching and mutual wanks or more? Oral sex or sexual intercourse? So many possibilities.

Molly returns and brings him out of his fantasies. She takes one look at the body and exclaims, “Sherlock, come here! This is not a heart attack.”

Sherlock steps up to the table looks down and concurs. He’s sorry he’ll have to tell John that he was right, they do have another victim.

Faint marks on his neck, yet the chart indicates that this was a heart attack at his workplace, not a victim from a crime scene.

“He was found on the floor of his office. I read the report too,” Molly says. “But look at his face. Without a doubt, strangulation was the cause of death.”

A thorough visual external examination comes first. Sherlock determines more with the clothes on than without. He sees a middle-class male in his sixties, hair recently trimmed, well-groomed salt and pepper beard, teeth perfect. Molly is correct. The crescent shaped marks on his neck aren’t older, the coloring is wrong. His face is congested and cyanotic. The skin on his upper eyelids blotched with petechiae— round clusters of blood pooled under the skin’s surface. This happened recently. Tailored suit, posh. Shoes designer, but older. On the sole they have the same sawdust. Sherlock’s mind automatically turns to the lumber yards, but what if it’s as simple as a home woodshop? A private place, lure him there, then kill him. Dump the body elsewhere. He removes the clothes from the body when he finds a note. Not one sewn or pinned, just slipped into his pocket. It’s the same dress shirt the others wore. On the note was written: “Join us or John is next.”

He doesn’t show the note to Molly, then he immediately texts John to come to the morgue.

“This is an obvious connection to the other murders,” Molly says. “There was no struggle. The same woman drugged, then strangled him. The imprints on the neck the same. I don’t need to run toxicology to know that result either, but I’ll run one for Greg. He’ll need it. We should call him.”

“Yes, call Lestrade,” he says and slips the note into his pocket.

The note is most worrying. Everything in him believes Sophy Kratides wouldn’t harm John Watson. If she did, Sherlock would never help her. In fact, Sherlock would come for her. His mobile beeps. John. He can’t come down to the morgue. He has too many patients waiting. At least he’s safe. For now.

After Molly calls Lestrade, they eviscerate the body and remove the main organs and dissect the heart using Davidson’s technique. Sherlock cuts the ventricles transversely to have the view of endocardium, its color is normal, but there are scars and fibrosis evident. After over an hour examining the body, Molly and Sherlock reconstitute the deceased and wash, dry, then rewrap the organs in a fresh shroud.

Sherlock is surprised to see Anthea walk in with Beca just as the examination is completed.

“I hear you have another victim,” Beca says.

Anthea looks on, and Sherlock notes, she is unaffected by the corpse before her.

“We do. Although killed at another location, the body was found at his workplace,” Sherlock explains to Beca. “We confirmed what Molly determined immediately; he did not die of natural causes. Since he had a history of heart disease and had a heart attack in his office prior, co-workers assumed he had had a heart attack. There’s extensive damage to the heart— old and new. While the strangulation triggered a heart attack, he died from asphyxiation.”

When Sherlock is done speaking, Beca steps over to reads Molly’s report.

Beca nods. “Send the report to Lt. Lestrade immediately. We’re glad to have you back with us, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock almost thanks her, but checks himself. He doesn’t want to seem too easy to please.

“We don’t have the toxicology,” Molly says, “but a preliminary on our part found a sedative was in his system although in our opinion not enough to stop his heart. I’m certain when toxicology comes back it will confirm the drug is a match to that of the other victims.”

“Excellent,” Beca says. “Send those results to Lestrade too. You both believe then that this is victim was killed by the serial killer.”

“We do,” Molly says.

“Same shirt, sawdust on shoes,” Molly points out. “This note is different too."

Sherlock head jerks up. Note? 

"Looks to be a shopping list, but it’s in a different handwriting from what’s on the back of his business card. Not sure whose it is. It may be his wife’s.”

It’s also not Sophy’s, Sherlock thinks. He’s seen her writing. He has an example of it hidden in his pocket. As Molly, Beca, and Anthea talk, Sherlock half listens to their discussion while his mind races, thinking about John. Sherlock messages him again. This time to tell him there is another victim. John answers.  

Sherlock realizes his hand is shaking as he slips his mobile back in his pocket.

“He’s exceptional at this job and although some of the staff think he’s a bit of an arse,” Beca tells Anthea. “I like him though. He brings what’s wrong in this world to our attention.”

Sherlock only caught bits and phrases from them after that such as “he means well” and “he’s clueless” and “lovable arse.” Then they giggle. And point. At him. He doesn’t recall Anthea ever smiling at all before this.

Beca leaves, then Anthea and Molly talk a bit more. In close proximity. Why would Anthea be so comfortable with them unless she’s been here to visit on other occasions? Why is she even here? Sherlock thinks he’s obviously been too distracted about the note and John. He missed something important in this room. Anthea must be still working to help Mycroft and his mission. What does she hope to find that Sherlock cannot at Cardiff Infirmary?

Nothing. Mycroft must have sent her to spy on Sherlock.

Not long after Anthea leaves, the third and final body of the day comes in. A stab wound. And Sherlock recognizes the victim as a homeless man he knew from his early days on the streets. He shared some bread with Sherlock. And a cigarette. He’d told Sherlock off-color jokes.

Sherlock puts on a detached face and grimly goes about the autopsy. Doctors cope in much the same way— it’s a natural protection mechanism.

Not long ago, Sherlock cocooned himself completely from the world within a protective shell. Then, the difference between himself and a doctor was he believed himself incapable of feeling. No more. As he struggles looking down at the man on the stab who Sherlock once laughed and drank with, he feels. The only difference now is that he just doesn’t reveal it to the world.

The kicker is that before they leave for the day, Molly asks Sherlock how she looks. At first it seems an unnecessary question, then he sees it’s sincere, and she’s looking for more than a superficial response.

“You have a date,” Sherlock realizes. Suddenly it makes sense. How had he overlooked this?

“I wondered how long it would take you. Yes, I do.” She smiles, and it’s a smile he’s never witnessed on her face. She’s embarrassed.

“You look, what do most men say at times like these? Fetching?”

She blushes a deeper red, and a warmth grows in his chest that he chose the right word. Sherlock has to admit she’s cute blushing and flustered— for a woman. If he was attracted to women, he would find her interesting. But he’s not. He texts John again.

“Thank you, Sherlock.” She picks up her purse to leave.

Maybe he shouldn’t have said that. Being thoughtful could become something Molly, and others, might come expect from him. He doesn’t want that. At least he didn’t. His mobile vibrates. John will be down momentarily.

Then he thinks of what John would do. _“Take care of your friends,"_ John would say.

Sherlock decides to throw caution to the wind. “Tell your date to treat you right or answer to Sherlock Holmes.”

Molly blushes again and laughs. Sherlock thinks he made the correct choice.

“Don’t forget tomorrow. Cards…” Sherlock reminds her over his shoulder.

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to make it.”

“Again? But you’ve missed our last one. Oh!” Suddenly it all falls into place. He’s misread again. “That’s who you’ve been spending your date night time with. You’ve been seeing...”

“Yes.” She’s blushing, then turns around. Sherlock follows behind her to meet John halfway, and sees Molly meet Anthea in the lobby.

________________________

John is chatting everyone up on the walk home. John steps in a puddle and doesn’t swear, and he’s smiling like a loon when he spills some of his tea on his jacket. He comments on how the birds are singing and how the drizzle feels good on his neck. He wears a crooked smile and laughs a bit too loud at Mike’s bad jokes. Even Mike knows something is up. It’s like Sherlock is in a alternate universe. First the note, then Beca visiting the morgue. Molly going out on a date with Anthea! Now this! John shouldn’t be happy. He should be on edge. Sophy Kratides could nab him off the streets at any moment!

He’s talking Sherlock up about Beca being so impressed with Sherlock’s deduction that the body was moved when one of those irritating vendors tries to sell John a flower. Instead of telling the man to bugger off, John buys it. Then hands it to him.

Mike is more shocked than Sherlock. “Yer giving Sherlock a rose? And I don’t get one?!” Mike hangs his head in mock despair. “I'm heart broken! You’ve known me longer!”

The gesture sends bells and whistles to Sherlock’s brain. _This means something_ , he thinks, recalling a poem: _O, my love is like a red, red rose_.

“Thank you, John.” He feels flushed and thinks of Molly’s similar reaction.

The rest of the way to 221b, John continues his observations on nothing and everything. By the time they’ve reached the threshold, Sherlock’s stomach flutters, his pulse quickens, his heart thrums. Each stair takes him one step closer to the possibilities he imagines. John climbs in front of him. So close.

They reach the door when John spins around and faces Sherlock, their mouths in perfect alignment.

“I want you to know,” John says, looking down at the rose, “that you’re more to me than some fading flower. I’m such rubbish at words like this but since that day I was hanging on to the ledge by the tips of my fingers, and you pulled me up, I’ve been happy. That’s not something I’ve felt in a very long time. I want you have that too. Some happiness.”

Sherlock’s stance softens along with his eyes and lips. He grasps John’s other wrist with his free hand. “I’m happy, John, but I don’t know how to do this. I need help. I need you to help me. John, show me how to do this.”

Sherlock pulls on his wrist, an invitation to his lips. Although it’s not quite mollified his own doubts, his lips are pretty confident. Eager even. To kiss him. John licks his own in anticipation. John leans closer, enough that Sherlock can feel the flush of his breath against the heat-soaked skin on his neck. John’s eyes flicker to Sherlock’s mouth. Invitation taken, mouths connect. Sherlock’s not sure whose groan is louder, but combined they get Mrs. Hudson’s attention.

“My, my,” she says with a wink as she looks out the crack in her door, “not that an old lady doesn’t appreciate young love, but you two need to take that into your flat.”

John blushes beautifully, and Sherlock feels a bit of heat in his own cheeks as they race up the stairs, open the door, and slip inside. Coats, scarves, and shoes come off fast at the door between quick kisses.

“Dinner first?” John asks.

“No! I mean, later.” And he sets the rose carefully on the table as John pours water into a beaker. It will have to do. No vases. Water splashes onto John’s jumper, and it strains a little darker down his chest. Sherlock steps closer and takes the beaker. He can see a bit of the way down inside the loose neckline. He looks for the scar, but can’t see it. He glimpses the gold of his skin and freckles scattered within freckles, glossy with sweat.

Sherlock feels a rub against his leg and John jumps. “That’s…Blackbeard.”

“Yes,” John says. “And he’s hungry. We better feed him, or we’ll not get a piece.”

Sherlock smirks at John’s bad pun. Tuna is on the menu again. Blackbeard is happy. So is Sherlock as John comes in for another kiss. He gasps as John fills his open-mouth with his tongue. He thinks of his note in his pocket. What he might lose.

John’s lips are hard and soft and filled with contradictions. His mouth is slippery and slick and sweet as candy. His tongue is thick and powerful and relentless. It stabs and explores inside Sherlock’s mouth. The air is hot surrounding them. He needs to remove these clothes.

John’s ahead of him and gets both hands up inside Sherlock’s scrubs. They stick to his sides and the small of his back, but John helps with the bottoms, slipping his warm doctor hands inside, then Sherlock helps John with his trousers. Why must John change at work? Scrubs are so much easier to sluff off.

Sherlock’s cock throbs as John palms him through his pants.

“My bedroom,” John says.

Sherlock croaks out, “Yes,” and John leads him to his room by the hand. Every touch affects Sherlock’s groin. He never felt so exposed, so vulnerable, yet so wanted. He can feel his pulse beating in his cock. Every touch sends a new throb of heat into his core.

“John,” Sherlock begs as he’s nudged toward the bed. “Please. I need…” The backs of his  thighs buckle against the frame, and he allows himself to fall back, both hands grasping John’s arms and pulling him down on top.

John fits, and Sherlock lets go so John can tear his undershirt off over his head. John removes his pants just as fast.

On his elbows looking down at Sherlock, John whispers, “You are a beauty.”

As Sherlock stares down between them, he thinks John is a thing of beauty too: his cock thick, long, and proud; the scar on his shoulder, a shining star.

John spits in his hand then grasps Sherlock. “Fucking beautiful cock you have too.”

A deep moan escapes Sherlock as John strokes him, twisting and pulling. Tight heat, perfect pressure make Sherlock long toes curl and flex in time with John’s attentions.

When John stops, Sherlock groans in disappointment followed by a sharp gasp of pleasure as John lies fully on top of him. John body fills Sherlock’s edges and angles with hollows and curves. John shifts, and they lock into place. Sherlock’s own gasp reverberates through John.

Sherlock thrusts his hips. Cocks slip and slide together, the heat from the friction builds between them. Sherlock could time it all, but he lives for the feeling instead. The sweat on their bellies and thighs mingle as they push together again and again and again. Skin on skin.

 _Superb_.

Magic doctor hands slip down his arse. Sherlock’s breath hitches in anticipation. They thrust together. It’s perfection. John gasps and clenches.

A celebration comes to life inside his head— all sparks and bright fireworks and explosions. After, John holds him. He realizes he wants this to never end. He wants John Watson in his arms forever.

They don’t bother with dinner. Later, he shows John the note. John isn’t upset. He trusts Sherlock.

Sherlock wakes early. Takes a shower. Makes coffee begins breakfast. It’s good to surprise John like he surprises Sherlock. While John’s in the shower, Sherlock writes John a new note and slips it in John’s billfold.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, only four chapters left! We're getting closer and closer to our conclusion. This is exciting. This chapter begins a bit differently from others. Our boys are happy and comfortable with each other (if you know what I mean). Maybe too comfortable because we all know just when you sit down and feel all safe and secure...
> 
> Well, you'll have to read and find out...

“This is...good. I’m speechless,” says John. He sits at the table and looks up to see Sherlock simply beaming at him. He’s standing stripped to the waist with only scrub bottoms and John’s navy and chalk striped chef’s apron on— he blows a wayward curl out his eye and smiles wider. 

Before he climbed out of bed, John heard the sizzle and pop of bacon in a skillet. Really, he’s not that surprised Sherlock made breakfast; he is surprised, however, at the care Sherlock took to make it. A full fry up done right with sunny-side up eggs, fried bread, baked beans, grilled leaky tomatoes (Sherlock must have sweet talked Mrs. Hudson to get more), Cumberland sausages, back bacon, and Sherlock’s better-than-sex coffee. John doesn’t know what he does to his coffee that makes it taste so brilliant, and frankly John’s afraid to ask since it might involve toxic chemicals, but as he takes a sip, he bloody doesn’t care.

“And what do  _ you _  think of breakfast, Blackbeard?” John asks, leaning down to pet the pirate captain on the head. 

“Obviously, he’s pleased,” Sherlock answers for him. The cat is licking his paws and cleaning his whiskers. “Only a few crumbles of bacon and a taste of eggs. Blackbeard still wanted more.”

John gives the cat another complimentary scratch behind the ear then stands, admiring the table. “Looks wonderful.” 

Sherlock waves for John to take a seat. The table is set except for the last of the fried bread that Sherlock adds to the feast. The focal point is the red rose John gave Sherlock. 

It’s a wonder John can’t get over: This gorgeous genius wants him, plain old John Watson. John doesn’t want to dwell too much over what might happen when Sherlock really gets his full memory back. Maybe Sherlock will realize John isn’t what he wants although John is beginning to believe Sherlock Holmes in any universe does want him. John will, however, deal with whatever comes, until then, John decides to live for the day. He deserves it. 

“Ready for another day of runny noses and stab wounds?” Sherlock asks, taking a bite of bacon. 

A second wonder, Sherlock is actually eating too. The third is that John’s apron could look so enticing on Sherlock. John appreciates how the blue stripes compliment Sherlock’s eyes and how the cotton clings and pulls against Sherlock’s chest as he lifts his fork to his mouth.

Sherlock gives John a sly look. “There’s enough time,” Sherlock says suggestively. “We could got back to bed.” Then he actually winks at John and points his fork toward the bedroom. 

John almost chokes on his baked beans. “That would be...good.” 

“A quickie? That’s what it’s called.” Sherlock waggles his brows at him then picks up another piece of bacon with his fingers and eats it slowly. His tongue flicks his fingers clean when done. 

John shovels in a mouthful of dripping egg yolk. He can’t recall the last time he finished such a large breakfast so fast. 

Sherlock stands and begins to walk toward the bedroom. He turns dramatically, taking off the chef’s apron in a strip tease. “I’ll get the dishes before we leave,” Sherlock promises. “Right now I would like to take your penis into my mouth.”

He’s hard at those words instantly. When John jumps to his fee to join him, his plate clatters against the table. 

It’s a race to the bedroom. Once inside, Sherlock slams the bedroom door with his foot, pushes John against it, then drops to his knees on the hardwood floor. John swears to God watching Sherlock stare up and lick lips almost makes his heart stop. There’s a thick throb in John's groin as Sherlock eyes dart to his long fingers to watch himself untie John’s robe and reach inside John’s pants. John twitches in excitement as Sherlock’s hand pulls out John's thickening cock. 

Sherlock glances back up for permission, and John gasps approval.

Eyes still looking up and shining, his lashes fluttering, his cheeks flushing, Sherlock sits back on his heels. He sticks his tongue out, curling the red tip of it in a come-hither tease. When he flicks it against the tip of John’s cock, John head jerks and bangs against the door behind him. 

Sherlock is brilliant. Did he just say that aloud?

“No, you are,” Sherlock says and presses his thumbs into the hollows of John’s groin.

“Oh. My. God.”

Sherlock smirks, tilts his chin up a bit, the slips John’s cock into that complication of a mouth. One hand holds John’s cock in place and the other rubs against the length of his own through his scrubs. With a long moan, John eyes snap shut. 

As he hums, Sherlock’s tongue dabs and explores his length. The corners of Sherlock's mouth tighten around his cock. He slurps unabashedly and tests the shape and feel of every inch of John’s cock.

John lets his head fall forward and opens his eyes to the sight. He relaxes his own hands and lets them move up to Sherlock’s shoulder, into his silky hair. He sees  Sherlock push one of his own hands is inside his scrubs, and begins wanking in time with the bobbing of his head. Sherlock’s hums turn to moans of pleasure, and John legs shake and flex to the rhythm. 

John heart tumbles to the rhythmic pull of Sherlock’s mouth. Pleasure shoots through his limbs. Sherlock swirls his tongue around the head John’s cock inside his mouth.

John’s hips pull off the surface of the door, and his fingers tug Sherlock’s hair and lightly scratch his scalp. A deep moan vibrates against his crotch. A signal. 

"I'm not gonna last much longer," John groans.

Sherlock has managed to push down his scrubs bottoms down to his thighs, giving John a spectacular view as Sherlock pumps his own beautiful long cock faster. John tugs Sherlock’s hair and scrapes his nails against his scalp. John feels a sudden spasm and pull deep within that sends shivers straight to his core. Sherlock sucks and moans and with an upward glance at John, Sherlock buries John’s cock down the back of his throat.

John comes. Lips hold on tight to root of his cock. John is amazed. Sherlock holds on and swallows. When done, he licks his lips and wipes the side mouth with those long fingers.

Apparently, he even has manners when sucking dick. 

"That’s the most beautiful act I’ve ever witnessed," John confesses. He’s shaking so much he can barely help Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock’s come is splattered on the floor, and his lush mouth is fever hot. When John kisses Sherlock’s burning lips, it’s the first time he’s ever enjoyed tasting himself. 

Those moments after feel like a comfort. There’s no misgivings or anxiety in either of them. Leaning against the door, they hold each other. John remembers earlier conversations with Sherlock about his sexuality. He seems to have it sorted. 

Sherlock does as promised and washes the dishes, then gives John an impromptu lesson in the kitchen on how to waltz. 

Sherlock has John lead.

"You are doing well, John."

"Spoke too soon," John laughs as he steps on Sherlock's foot.

"You're a fine dance instructor. When did you learn to dance?" John asks. They bump the kitchen counter but continue. 

"Mummy had me take lessons, and I loved to dance from the start," Sherlock says. "Although not so much with my cousin, Elizabeth at Christmas. She was such a bore."

"You should have taught me this sooner." John's feeling more confident, and he spins Sherlock around. "It's nice."

"While I’ve danced my whole life, it never felt as nice as it does with you." Sherlock hesitates. He seems to be struggling for what to say next. "I’m not very experienced when it comes to relationships as you well know,” Sherlock admits. “What Sophy told me about my...past sexual history...I never enjoyed any of that. I never wanted it. Not until now. Until you.”

As they spin around in the tiny space, Sherlock holds him tighter. John looks into those sea green eyes and wants to tell Sherlock how deeply he feels. It’s not that he’s afraid, but this is about Sherlock and Sherlock’s feelings. John can wait.  

They reluctantly part to get ready for the day. 

The walk to the hospital reminds John how he felt the first time he was in love. He holds Sherlock’s hand behind his back and worries the genius’s knuckles with his thumb. He remembers Sherlock counting off “one, two, three, one, two, three” in his ear as they waltzed in the kitchen. He remembers how warm and happy he felt inside. He wonders again if he is in love. He certainly feels like he is. 

At hospital when he changes into his scrubs in the locker room, John is still thinking of Sherlock: How Sherlock smirks when John tells him an awful joke, or how Sherlock nods half-listening when John’s telling him about his day. How comfortable John’s mind feels when they sit alone together in the flat with Sherlock’s feet in his lap, or how on his knees this morning Sherlock eyes beckoned to John. 

Sherlock is still waiting for him as he comes out of the locker room. 

“Looking forward to cards tonight?” John asks.

“I’m afraid I have to bow out,” Sherlock says. “I’m meeting an old friend, Winston, for a chat at his place. He’s been instrumental in Lestrade’s new plan to make neighborhoods safe.”

“Does he play cards?” John can’t but help hide the disappointment he feels that Sherlock won’t be there tonight and that Sherlock didn’t ask him to come with him to speak to Winston. “I don’t know.”

“If so, invite him up after your chat. He might like a game or two.” John always looked forward to their card nights, even if he loses and Sherlock always wins. Having someone Winston would be different. Without Molly there, it would be nice to have someone new at the table.

“Alright, John, I shall try.” 

What amazing is that they worry about each other. He worries about Sherlock walking home at night, and Sherlock worries about him— he knows it’s because he thinks Sophy’s men might be around every corner, but John can take care of himself, and he always has his service revolver handy. 

Still it warms John to hear Sherlock say,“Be careful” before John leaves to go down the morgue. John keeps getting text messages too. One or two words, asking John about his day. John knows he’s checking. 

John makes his rounds and tries not to pop in on Sherlock and Molly but can’t help himself any longer. He tells himself it’s fine, lunch break is in a half in hour. He steps up to the morgue door and is there just in time to overhear Molly telling Sherlock about her date last night. 

With Anthea! And Molly is giggling. He’s surprised Sherlock didn’t share this juicy slice of gossip with him, but then realizes Sherlock doesn’t do gossip. It’s all “information for deduction.” 

Since John is certain Sherlock already knows he’s eavesdropping, John steps in. 

“Thought you’d like to get a bite at the canteen. Almost lunchtime.” 

Since John is still full from breakfast, it’s more of an excuse to spend time with Sherlock. All three go up to the next floor to the canteen. 

While Molly and John stand in line, Sherlock decides against lunch and gets coffee and waits for them at a table.

“Sure, that’s edible?” Molly nods at something that resembles mixed vegetables. 

“No sure. Any interesting cases this morning?”

“Just an accidental overdose. Alcohol and benzos.”

“I couldn’t help but overhear earlier…you and Anthea. I’m surprised,” John says since he’s itching to learn more. The nurses within earshot will appreciate it too.

“Nothing much to say. We’ve been seeing each other for a few weeks. You want to know what brought us together? Sherlock. She couldn’t understand why you and I kept defending him. She really wanted to understand.” She points at the canned peaches and adds a bowl to her tray.

“A believer?” John says.

“Yes! She had her doubts about him. I told her she needed to see what he’s really like inside. He’s not at all like what that Kratides woman said. Just like those people who comment on your blog who believe in Sherlock Holmes and his deductions— his ideas to clean up the city that you wrote about was instrumental in the change. People know that there’s someone out there who will help. People see how life’s been changing Cardiff for the better. Your blog showed them that Sherlock is the catalyst.”

“You make him sound like a bloody superhero,” John laughs, helping Molly with her tea.

“In a fashion, yes, he is. Think about it. You already know he has extraordinary powers and abilities! His family was wronged. He’s solved some long-standing crimes. Made our streets safer. You could even say he has a secret identity. Even from himself.”

“So, you don’t know?” John asks, walking to the table and pulling up a chair.

“What?” 

John knows he’s messed up as he sits down. He just assumed since Greg knew the lie about Sherlock’s memory return, Molly would have already heard.

“I have all of my memory back.”

John is relieved that he didn’t have to be the one to continue the charade. Molly squeals and jumps on Sherlock in a full-body hug.

After, it’s all John can do not to lear at Sherlock's mouth and hands as he snags the crisps off John’s plate and licks his fingers.

It's then the John becomes certain. He is in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Molly gives John, then Sherlock a curious look. 

“Maybe I should be aiming the new relationship questions at you two instead,” Molly says. “So…spill!”

As he drinks his tea, John feels his own face get hot, but Sherlock looks unphased. 

“It’s most satisfactory. I gave John a brilliant blow job this morning.”

John chokes on his Earl Grey, and Molly bursts out laughing as John sputters, “Sh-sherlock!”

“Oh, my!” Molly says. “I wasn’t expecting that much information!”

John is still choking, and Sherlock pats him on the back. 

“Was that not good?” Sherlock asks, leaning down to peer into John’s face.

“No, it was good, but you didn’t need to tell Molly it was.”

“I understand.” 

From that point, lunch is question and answer game. Molly is full of them. Thankfully, it’s not too personal, and she doesn’t mention the four letter word “LOVE” that is ever on John's mind. But Sherlock does say he taught John to waltz this morning.

As they walk from the canteen, John leans into Sherlock and says, “I still don’t like lying to them.”

“John, please view is as such: your blog is working. Soon those responsible for the horrors brought upon the world will come to justice.”

“Hmm. You do sound a bit like a self-righteous superhero.”

“What? Oh! Molly's observations."

"Do you read lips? You weren't even there..." 

They round the corner near the nurse's station. 

"Look!” Sherlock says, pointing over to Molly, Mike and some of the nurses huddled together. “She has already spread our good news.”

The rest of the day drags by— all the normal. Although John knows Sherlock and Molly are having a time with Greg, who came in to find out more details regarding the new murder victim. He half expects Sherlock to come and drag John to another crime scene, but he never appears. He does text. A lot.

Not until it’s time to clock out for the day does Sherlock stop. Instead, face-to-face, Sherlock talks animatedly about his day. Mostly deaths from normal causes and how bodies smell differently depending on when and where the victim dies. Sherlock notes that Molly says the morgue has seen less and less gunshot and stab wounds over the last month. John concurs he’s seen less in the A&E. 

They stop at a market on the way home and browse around, commenting on the fresh peaches and berries that have become more and more available. John is surprised when Sherlock offers to pay. He’s usually too distracted to bother. 

They carry the groceries in companionable silence. John loves these moments as much as the ones where they are intimate.

John warms up what’s left of Sherlock’s breakfast feast and makes a quick meal of beans and eggs with toast and some of Mrs. Hudson’s fresh tomatoes on the side. Sherlock feeds Blackbeard, then slices the peaches for a nice sweet treat.

They sit down to a comfortable meal with John half expecting (and hoping) that Sherlock will talk him into another “quickie” before cards at Mike’s, but he’s disappointed. Not that he couldn’t suggest it himself. He clears the table and starts the dishes. Sherlock joins him. 

“I loved it when you scratched my head,” Sherlock says, as he stacks the plates in the cupboard. “You could do that again.”

John knows an opening when he sees one. “I’d love to.” John smiles and slides up behind him and reaches around for a hug. He plants kisses the back of Sherlock's neck. He feels the rumble in Sherlock’s chest through his palms. 

"As much as I would enjoy it, isn't it almost time for you to go to Mike's for cards?"

John sighs and presses his forehead to the back of Sherlock’s neck, then gives it a quick peck.  He’ll be up for a lot more than rubbing Sherlock’s curly head tonight.

“Until then. I’m afraid I need to get to Winton’s, and you have a card date.”

It’s tempting to pull the bloody genius into his arms and kiss those perfect lips until he begs for more, but Sherlock is checking the time on his new mobile he managed to get from Mycroft (John is not asking). 

They walk together since Sherlock says his destination isn’t that far from Mike’s flat— although John is certain it’s because Sherlock doesn’t want John walking alone with Sophy ready to grab him. 

“I’m meeting Winston not far from the warehouse Mycroft wants to use,” Sherlock confides.

“What are you talking about?”

“Abandoned warehouse near the old Ferry Road landfill. It’s easy for his men to remain out of site and undetected.”

John feels a sudden trepidation with Sherlock’s information. “And you’re telling me this now. Why? Maybe I should forget cards and go with you.”

“Not necessary, but I want you to know. Mycroft didn’t, but I cannot keep this from you.You have received more attention on your blog that he anticipated. The conspiracy theory site along with your blog have exploded on social media.” 

They both stop at the side of a vacant city street, and Sherlock searches John’s face. “It is important that you are careful. We do not want you taken until we wish it. We need a signal,” Sherlock says. “Text me using repeat letters on your mobile— It doesn't matter which letters. That way you do not need to look at your mobile. Just send the message.”

“You’re sure Sophy has no hint yet that Mycroft is alive?” John asks. His mind works overtime. Why is Sherlock telling him this now? It can’t be a good sign. He must be expecting her to act.

“None. Ms. Kratides will take the bait.”

“Me.” 

“Yes, you. That is why you must be careful. Nothing can happen to you.”

They continue walking toward Mike’s flat.

“Nothing can happen to you either, Sherlock. This why you posted on my blog that we’re playing cards tonight!” John says. “Why are really meeting Winston? It has to do with the plan, doesn’t it?”

“The homeless network will be essential. Eyes and ears. I will enlist their help. Winston is a leader.”

“Be careful.” John throws his will power to the winds and pulls Sherlock in for a long snog. 

“You too,” Sherlock says as he breaks away. “I am glad you have your gun.”

At first John thinks Sherlock is making a joke about parts of him coming to attention, but then realizes he’s talking about the luger stuffed in his jeans.

It’s odd, but John never noticed that deep seductive rumble in his voice when mentioning his service revolver before. 

“I should take you out for target practice some time,” John suggests.

“I’d like that,” Sherlock says, and winks.

John waves and goes inside. It’s still daylight, but it won’t be when Sherlock returns. He’s hoping that Sherlock convinces Winston to come back with him. Sherlock is more than capable of taking care of himself, but John doesn’t want him wandering the streets alone even with a mobile.

Greg greets him at the door with a tumbler of whiskey. Mike is setting out crisps and sandwiches with a new neighbor, who opened a bookstore. They talk a bit about crime novels as they watch the telly and mingle. 

“Where’s Sherlock?” Greg asks. “Not surprised he stayed home after yesterday.”

“About that Greg, I need to speak to you. Sherlock will more than likely be here later. He’s meeting that Winston bloke about safe neighborhoods. He may bring Winston along. Another new face.”

“I thought about not coming myself— although today at the morgue he was more amicable with Molly there. It’s not that he wasn’t right— at least about men in the department— it’s…

“Yes, about that. He said all that to rile you, not because he believes you’re corrupt. To the contrary. Sherlock thinks you’re one of the most honest people he knows.” 

“I guess that’s saying something since he remembers who he is— but for what purpose? Why say it if he didn’t mean it?”

John decides now is the best time to explain to Greg about what’s happening. He pulls Greg aside in Mike’s kitchen. At first Greg is angry, then relieved. 

After a bit more telly and chat, they take a seat at the table, and Greg deals. John pulls out his billfold to determine out how much he can afford to lose when a note falls out. It’s folded twice with “John” in black ink written in Sherlock’s cursive. A love note? John's heart beats faster. He sucks in a breath and carefully opens it. As he reads, his heart drops.

“Bloody hell!” He hands the note to Greg whose eyes silently skim the note.

> _ John, _
> 
> _ Do not be too angry with me. This was necessary. The game has changed. Although not that different from the one that I had shared with you earlier. Understand that I had to remove you from the equation. I did tell you the truth. I do need you with me, but not as a hostage. Although this decision was spontaneous on my part, I know it will work. Mycroft's plan would would have failed. If they would have taken you, I would have done anything to keep you safe. As you are reading this, I am meeting with Ms. Kratides. Winston and the homeless network were informed prior. I met with him today at hospital. I am sorry for that part of the deception, but know that they ‘have my back.’ I do, however, need you. Please bring Lestrade and any other assistance you feel necessary. Mycroft included. Exercise caution on approach.  _
> 
> ~~_ Sincerely, _ ~~
> 
> _ Love, _
> 
> _       Sherlock _

  
  


“Mycroft? What’s this about Mycroft?” Greg asks. “I thought he was dead.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, we're mean, leaving you hanging like this (gives evil laugh).


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for a ride in this chapter! Revised and revised and still should do more but I hated to wait any longer to post this. So, that said, sorry for any mistakes in this. I plan to go back in and fix them later today, but I wanted to post this for people anxious from the last chapter's cliffhanger.

Sherlock coat whips against his legs. It’s bitter out, but his nerves keep him warm. The closer Sherlock comes to his meeting place with Winston, the more carefully he dodges through littered alleys and abandoned apartments to remain hidden.

Most of the street lights stand like old, blind sentinels while a few flicker, guarding nearly vacant streets. At night the roads are lonely but during the day, it’s not unusual for cars or lorries to pass.

As soon as dark begins to fall, people stay inside and lock doors to keep safe. If they do leave, they go in numbers and don’t go far unless they are lucky enough to afford transportation.

When he lived on the streets, Sherlock hid and just survived and learned to avoid open spaces and move in shadow— only desperation took him near the docks. Tonight, desperation of a different sort drives him there.

John should be checking the note soon. His trust in John finding it is steadfast. He expects his mobile to vibrate with a message from John or Mycroft at any time. He imagines Mycroft’s irritation when he finds Sherlock has gone off to meet Sophy on his own. Sherlock feels that satisfaction again. Maybe it’s because he recalls Mycroft always trying to steal his thunder as a child, or how he lost a sense of trust in his older brother when Mycroft abandoned him when he left for university.

The place that Sophy thinks she chose for their meeting, or more like Mycroft knew she’d choose, Sherlock knows little about. He’s curious how Mycroft knew she’d select the South Warehouse District. At first Sherlock thought it was because some of the buildings were part of Sophy’s anonymous property holdings, but she has many of those, and there is nothing advantageous about the district’s location except it’s off the Central Link. It’s certainly not a place Sherlock would have ever considered— he’s only passed near it on few other occasions.

He reasoned the district held some sort of importance although there seemed nothing of interest or value to Sherlock. When the man with no past memory came into being, the knowledge of landmarks inside his head confounded him. For two years, he spent days when his mind was clear, exploring the places few knew in an effort to spark his memories. From there he’d learned Cardiff’s hidden secrets, but he’d remembered nothing— until John came into his life.

Lestrade said the warehouses in that district were derelict. Still, there is a connection. Mycroft knows it. Or maybe Sherlock does himself but can’t remember, which makes it all the more puzzling. If only John was here to spark his mind! But he needs John safe more than his help at this moment.

As he enters Cemetery Park, his mind continues to work through all the possibilities. He moves near the spindly trees lining the walkway. The moon and what’s left for street lights, cast long shadows and allow him to see his way. Sherlock notices Winston an instant before Winston notices him. His new friend is tucked in beside a disease-resistant elm.

“Nice to see you,” he says to Sherlock, warming his hands with his breath.

“You look more rested than the last time I saw you,” Sherlock quips but keeps his voice hushed.

“I sure am, thanks to you. Nice to have a soft place to lay my head and a full belly. It wasn’t hard to convince some of the boys to help after your generosity. Greasing the palms never hurts either. That brother of yours must have some deep pockets.”

“Not as deep as they once were, but deep enough it seems.” It always felt so satisfying having his brother pay.

His mobile vibrates. He pulls it out. It’s John, of course.

_On my way, you wanker._

Sherlock smiles, and Winston notes Sherlock’s change as he spies the message.

“Some of the boys told me, you were famous before Pandora, Mr. Holmes. Some sort of famous detective.”

“More like infamous.”

Winston’s spent too long on the street to draw attention to himself, so when he chuckles, it’s low and quiet.

“I’d prefer if you keep calling me Will.” Sherlock shuffles his feet to get warm. “Or at least, Sherlock.”

“Can do. Helpin’ you out is more than payin’ back a favor; I’m helpin’ a friend. And that goes for all others as well. It wasn’t hard gettin’ volunteers to do this for you. We want you to know you havin’ us all work together, gives us a purpose.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you. The homeless network is all set up for you. We have the signals down. The warehouses are common flops, so this Kratides lady won’t be the wiser with all my pals hangin' ‘round.”

“So I thought,” Sherlock says.  

Winston reaches out, and they shake hands. His grip is firm and comforting. “Best you’re gettin’ on yer way. Be careful, Will.”

“Thank you.”

“I won’t be far behind,” he says as Sherlock begins to walk off.

When he’s a block from the warehouse near Bute East Dock, he stops to observe his surroundings closely. It’s open highway, and he furtively pokes in and out alongside and beneath Central Link, hiding in the overgrown of weeds and bushes around the highway.

He sees Winston’s shadow following not far behind.

He remains on guard. He doesn’t wish to be surprised by Ms. Kratides before he reaches the warehouses. It’s imperative he has enough time to get her to spill what she knows to him like any good villain before Lestrade, John, and his brother bust in. He thinks he can win her trust quickly, but if not, maybe he can goad her into telling him enough so that he can be certain he is right.

As he reaches the buildings, he’s hidden near the west side. Plenty of abandoned asphalt spilling out like a lake with grass breaking through in tiny islands. Easy to hide himself behind sheds and barrels— or anyone else for that matter. He watches for movement between two warehouse build only a few feet apart. He sees a few homeless people near burning barrels, warming their hands. A red scarf is tied around one of their wrists. A signal. Sophy is here.

It’s dark without intermittent street lights although a waning moon helps. Figures hidden catch his eye like fireflies. Some to the right of him, some to the left. He’s counting, assessing. Some are the homeless network, pretending to laze about, others are Sophy’s men. Since he’s slipped through her fingers once before, she’s brought plenty of support. He’s certain she’s already waiting inside, the same way he’s certain she was there when he lost his memory.

Then he sees the confirmation that she’s within the third building. A lighter flickers. A man lighting a cigarette, but the repeat one, two, three flicks count out in three-quarter time.

Once he’s established she is indeed there, he decides where to enter.

Then he nearly staggers and falls. How could he have missed this?! Although these buildings held no interest to him, he’d thought he’d nosed around the edges of this place— or so he told himself— but what he sees before him is something he either avoided or blocked from his mind.

Three dirt mounds over four feet high, each over six meters long by three meters wide, fill the open lot. On them dried wreaths with faded and frayed ribbons, handmade crosses, weathered cards and notes, tattered stuffed bears and babydolls, bouquets of flowers some placed fresh that very day. Most flowers were old and brittle petals: crushed leaves left to lace the mounds like sorrow. Tufts of grass and weeds grew among the offerings—  little bits of life between death.

Why suggest this place to meet? This was no address just pulled from Sophy’s property acquisitions.

Old warehouses leveled and bulldozed. Earth moved and filled. Sherlock wonders, how many were buried here? Thousands upon thousands. All family and friends left behind.

A mass grave. The dead had to be buried somewhere. This was one of the somewheres.

People. People were beneath. Some he probably met.

He’s a bit dazed, not at his best when he walks in through a side door. He wants Sophy to _think_ he’s alone. He calms himself. He studies the narrow hallway through the office spaces toward the large double doors that lead into loading docks like he’s observing for a case. He is afterall. Maybe the biggest case he’ll ever have. Maybe his last.

The once polished concrete is pitted and covered in dust and grime from disuse with clear, recent footprints. He counts them. Sophy brought an impressive number of men just to catch Sherlock.

Through the double doors, even his breath echoes around the large, hollow warehouse. His shoes speak as the footfalls’ echo bounce against the warehouse walls. No surprises, then. A final click reverberates behind then in front of him as the doors announce he’s arrived.

He makes a grand entrance. He strides to the middle of the main dock floor. _What had John called him?_ _A superhero with a Belstaff cape?_  

Sherlock spins around, arms dramatically out. He’s a dancer, so he embraces it. A graceful pirouette. His coat obeys: it billows as he twirls and ripples in waves around him. “Come out! Come out wherever you are!” he bellows, then stops spinning.

The red lights of at least a dozen laser scopes dance all over his body. His heart, his head, legs, chest. He’s lit up like a Christmas tree and dizzier than before, but it’s worth it. “Nice to know I’m wanted!” he smirks and throws his hands in the air again, only this time in surrender.

Sophy Kratides steps out on cue.

“I thought this was a fitting place to meet,” she laughs.

Meet? He's still unsure. He thinks he understands. It _must_ be the graves. His hands are still high in the air but his fingers dance.

“Glad you decided to change the day,” she says.

“Surprise!” Sherlock says. “I like spontaneous dates.” Sherlock puts down his arms inch by inch.

“Interesting. Most interesting analogy. I thought you only had eyes for Dr. Watson.”

“Him? He’s good for a toss or two, but he’s a terrible _bore_! He snores!” Sherlock crinkles his noses.

“You are bluffing, Mr. Holmes. Any other reason in particular for your change of plans?” she asks.

“It’s boring at hospital.”

“Beca Bellin is a bit of a bore, but I thought the murders peaked your interest.”

“Oh, those. _Solved_. You did it.”

She laughs. “But you could appreciate the artistry. I know that. I must say I’m glad you decided not to bring any company; I did think our meeting for tomorrow night might include a few extras, Mr. Holmes, although I am still a bit wary.”

“Oh, Sophy! I’m surprised at you! It’s _Sherlock_! You know me. I know you. You had to have me. Well, here I am. I’m offering you my mind.”

“Oh, I do want it, but not for the reasons you think.”

“Please. Don’t you bore me too! You want to make sure I don’t spoil your plot to gain control of Cardiff and other grander designs you have.”

“If that’s all I wanted, I would have killed you.”

“I do hope this isn’t about revenge, that’s so boring and predictable!”

“You know my proposal. You’ll work for me. Make our little addictive additive. I think it’s a bit ironic? You the reformed addict creating a substance to addict the world! And you’ll be married to your work. My lab awaits you.”

Sherlock looks at her. She doesn’t believe he remembers everything. If she did, Mycroft said she wouldn’t have a use for him. She would kill him. He doesn’t believe she needs him to become her mad scientist. It is about revenge.

“I welcome it, but I must make a few suggestions. No locking me up this time.”

“I never locked you up!” she smiles devilishly.

“Prisons are made from more than bars. I want to be able to come and go as I wish. No secluded places either.”

“You know our lab is in Cardiff on the bay. That should be open enough for you. In return, I need to know you have no entanglements. And I need to know what you remember. Your blogger...and his blog.”

Ah, he was right. This is about revenge. “The blog was a pile of romantic rubbish!” he begins. “I am no one’s savior. I made those suggestions to Lestrade for my own purposes. As for my past, I remember _nothing_. And I never will. I lied to Lestrade. I lied to John Watson. I didn’t want them asking about when or if I’ll remember. I abhor the repetition of it all. I do like being this man Sherlock Holmes though. It was a game pretending to be him, but it’s a ruse. I am not that man. I came here because I wanted to be here. With you. No more boring life with boring people. _Please_ don’t you end of being one of them with your senseless questions about my past. I had such high hopes for you.”

“You must think me a fool if you think I believe you. You remember something.”

“I’m tired. Tired of pretending. It’s boring. You understood before I did. You told me. I’m a killer. A sociopath.” Sherlock’s arms fly up over his head again and clenches his fists. “I DON’T CARE!”

“But you do. You care for John Watson.”

“John Watson! He was there. Willing. He was convenient. I couldn’t remember what sex was like, so I found out. At least that part wasn’t disappointing. But he’s little man with little aspiration.”

“I can prove you care.”

“Try. Please. John Watson is a sap. Thin lipped. Other than in bed he is boring! He follows me like some lapdog.” As he speaks, his arms flail about, but his eyes never leave her face. He makes a bold step toward her, and the red dots dance across him.

“I’m sure he thinks he _LOVES_ me,” Sherlock continues his rant. “I can’t DO IT ANYMORE! I can't pretend to look at him all moon-eyed.” Each word he underlines with loathing as he spreads his arms and twists his body in disgust. Sherlock stops and bends over at the waist then straightens.

“Quite an act,” she says stepping closer.

Sherlock’s heart nearly stops when he sees someone behind her being dragged across the floor by two me, his head bowed.  Sherlock makes certain his own face doesn’t betray him.

“No act. For once. This is me. Who I am," Sherlock says. "Do you want to know the truth?” He leans in a bit, making the lasers dance more, then whispers to her theatrically: “It took me far too long to recognize it. I’m happy that the Pandora Epidemic happened! It killed all the _STUPID_ people! Do you know how that set the world free? Me free? Not be subjected to a world filled with blithering idiots!”

She crosses her arms and squints her eyes. “So if you came here alone, why was Watson, your blogger, on his way here to save you. ”

Sherlock’s eyes travel to the man they’ve dropped to the floor between them. He’s face up, blood beginning to clot on his scalp.

“I thought _you_ wanted him.”

John moans between them, and Sherlock’s hands itch to touch him, to find out if he is well, but to do that would put John in more peril.

“Sophy. I’ve given you a gift. Please take him. But you are missing the best gift of all. Someone you want more anyone, even me. He’s just outside these very doors.”

Sophy frowns, then slowly the corners of her mouth begin to perk up.

“I have no loyalty to him," Sherlock says. "From what I’ve learned, I never had any loyalty toward anyone. He may be my brother, but he is no one to me, just as this man on the floor is no one.”

Sophy is beside herself with glee and motions to her men, but some of them have already scrambled for the doors.

“I think your men should have him about....now!” Sherlock says. From the outside a loud report of a gun, then shouting. A moment later, Mycroft and two of his cronies are lead inside, guns pointed at their heads.”

“You said there would only be four of them,” Mycroft says.

“I lied!” Sherlock sings out.

“Shut up!” she yells. “On your knees, all of you.”

“I think that’s hardly necessary. I’m on your side,” Sherlock says, but does as he's asked.

“You are, at least until your memory completely returns and you become all soft and humane again,” she says.

“Please. I was never humane! Ask my brother.”

“True,” Mycroft says.

“This is all that I hoped for and a day earlier than expected,” she says. “First, the justice of losing your memory, and who you are! Sherlock Holmes, the great detective! I only wish that would have happened to Mycroft, but we can’t have everything. I just knew I’d see you again, Mycroft. How long has it been?”

“I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Mycroft asks.

“My, my. How soon they forget,” she says, nudging John with her foot. Sherlock tries his best to ignore it. “In all fairness,” she says to Mycroft. “I have changed a lot. Grown up. I didn’t expect Sherlock to recognize me since he has no memory, but you, Mycroft? You don’t even recognize your own sister?”

“You are _not_   my sister.” Mycroft says, his eyes fix on her face.

“I was _like_   a sister!”

Suddenly Mycroft’s eyes fill with recognition. “You were _never_ like my sister.”

“You told me Eurus was dead,” Sherlock says.

“Oh, Sherlock,” she says. “How long have you known your brother was alive, and you didn’t tell me? I’d say that was just as bad. This is most disheartening.”

“I needed some sort of leverage. It’s the end result that matters. I’ve handed Mycroft to you now. Can I at least get off my knees, the floor is disgusting.”

“Very well, get up,” she says.

John groans again on the floor. Sherlock keeps himself from looking down at him as he stands.

“You are delusional,” Mycroft says to Sophy. “You are no more my sister than my assistant Anthea is. But I do know you.”

Like a hot knife, pain pierces through Sherlock’s skull. He blinks. He _knows_ who she is. The gardener’s cottage. A little girl who played Treasure Island with them. She was Ben Gunn! Skully Island.

“You were marooned,” Sherlock says. “We marooned you because you couldn’t find the treasure.”

“I had no map!” she screams into Sherlock’s face. “But I got it! I did! And I used it! You do remember?!”

Sherlock thinks that fairly good admission of guilt that he has more than just some of his memory back, but she’s not following that line of thought. Sophy is off somewhere else.

“You took her away from me!” she screams in Mycroft’s face. “I wasn’t good enough for her, and you sent her away! And you had the key!”

“I did you a favor. It wouldn’t have worked.” Mycroft steps away from Sherlock. “She was very disturbed, much like you.”

“I think your usefulness as crew members has come to an end,” she says, eye twitching.

Sherlock is stunned. Eurus. They’re talking about his sister, and what happened to her. But he can't think. His head feels as if it will explode.

“Sophy, you are making a mistake,” Sherlock says through the pain. “This is not about the past. Think of now. I am a asset you can not ignore. Think of all I can give you.”

 _Where is Lestrade? And Winston?_ Sherlock thinks.

“A man with no guilt,” Sherlock continues. “Who can solve any puzzle. I’ll work in your labs, or I’ll embrace becoming an assassin. No need to dirty your pretty hands with strangulations— unless of course you enjoy it too much to give it up. I’ll gladly choke the life out of people. Sounds exciting. I could even start with Mycroft.”

“Oh, my, Sherlock! Embracing the psychopath within! I do like that in an accomplice. So nice of you to offer, but it’s too much fun to give up. I want the pleasure of killing him myself. About puzzles...two brothers without a key. Or am I wrong?”

“No key here. Mycroft has it. Mycroft, give it to the nice lady before she kills us.”

“Little brother, you know I cannot. I never really had it.”

“Forever talking in circles and pretending to save the free world. The key is a metaphor. Or not?” Sherlock notices something peculiar, as Sophy turns from Mycroft, some of the red dots on Mycroft have disappeared then reappear. “What a bother. No key? I guess you’ll have to kill him then,” Sherlock says to Sophy and gives an exaggerated sigh.

“Why don’t I use your blogger’s gun?” she says, reaching out. One of her men places John’s service revolver in her hand. She points the gun at Sherlock’s head.

“If I never remember, then no one will have the key to re-creating or mutating Pandora. Problem solved. If you shoot me, then problem solved too.”

“Oh, but what a waste. You have remembered much more than you’ve let on, haven’t you, Sherlock? But I may need your help. That bothersome blog of Dr. Watson’s has damaged what progress we’ve made convincing people that they need our guidance,” she says, and points the gun down at John Watson. Sherlock keeps his face blank.

“You would not want to lose Cardiff as your own little fiefdom,” Mycroft interjects. “I think that is all then, brother mine. I must say I liked you better with a heart.”

Sophy turns John’s gun again to Mycroft. Sherlock looks down at his chest as she does. The red dot over his own heart disappears and then like magic blinks back.

“I think I’ll take you up on your offer as a test,” she says to Sherlock.

“I must say that fratricide is overrated as a test of loyalty,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock holds his breath as a spike of pain shoots through his head.

“How does it feel, having the little brother you wanted to save betray you, that he chose all this? That Sherlock caused Pandora and all your pain? It feels exquisite to me.”

She turns to Sherlock. She hands the gun to Sherlock, almost thinks better of it, then does it. “Kill him,” she says.

Sherlock takes the gun, points it at his brother. Mycoft’s eyes go wide as Sherlock pulls the trigger and fires. Mycroft clutches his chest, then crumples to the floor, blood pooling beneath him.

“I didn’t think you do it!” she says ecstatically. “Forget Cardiff! We will rule the world together you and I!”

Sophy laughs as she kicks Mycroft on the floor, and he groans. “This is so much sweeter than I’d planned! I turned your brother against you, Mycroft, and it’s the last thing you’ll recall as you _die_!”

Suddenly, her eyes dart wildly, watching the red lasers switch positions from Sherlock and Mycroft’s men to Sophy and her men. Her face turns red, her lips a thin line, as Mycroft rolls over on the floor and smiles up at her.

Sherlock immediately drops to the floor, kneeling next to John. The luger still in Sherlock’s hand, is now trained on Sophy.

“You could have told me you put blanks in it,” John moans.

“Only one. The rest, I assure you, are very real.”

But as he speaks to John, her hand is inside her coat. Lestrade is behind her, weapon pointed and ready. Then he hears it, the click of a safety being turned off. It seems she’d kept her Glock, and it’s trained on Sherlock’s forehead. As he looks up at Sophy, his head screams so much from the pain, that Sherlock thinks it might be a relief for her to pull the trigger.

“You won’t win, Mycroft,” she whispers. “Say goodbye, to your little brother...” but with her last word, she falls forward as John yanks her ankles and drags her down to the floor. The shot echoes inside the warehouse, and with it more gunfire comes from behind. Sophy’s Glock clatters to the floor and blood blossom’s across her chest and oozes out onto the concrete floor.

Sherlock kicks the gun away from Sophy’s reach. He then gently turns John toward him. Mycroft stands and brushes off his trousers.

“I do believe my pinstriped Grieves and Hawks is ruined.” Mycroft unbuttons his jacket to reveal theater blood bags along with faux blood dripping down his chest.

“It goes well with the red lining,” Sherlock says.

“It would have been nice to let me know what you’d planned,” John says with a groan, then looks up at Sherlock with a pained smirk.

“You’ve been shot in the side,” Sherlock says, putting pressure on the wound. He looks up to see Winston standing next to Lestrade.

“It’s nothing,” John adds. “Looks worse than it is. Just grazed my side. I’m more worried about you. It’s your head, isn’t it?”

“I’m fine.”

“He can’t win!” Sophy moans from the floor. “He...he can’t!”

“We weren’t able to get all of the shooters even with your man Winston’s help,” Lestrade says to Sherlock. “Thank you, Mycroft. We couldn’t have organized all this without you.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Mycroft rasps. “We do make a good team.”

As Sherlock helps John stand on shaky feet, John looks at Sherlock closely.

“I should punch you for that note,” he says checking Sherlock’s eyes closer. “I wasn’t far from Mike’s door when some of her men ambushed me.”

“Took you long enough to get here, Lestrade,” Sherlock said. “I was running out things to say.”

“I did not think that possible,” Mycroft says.

Through the haze, Sherlock accesses John’s expression. Fists clenched, brow pulled tight. John is concentrating on pushing back his pain, but that’s not the reason for his reaction. He’s angry. “How much did you hear? Exactly?”

“Little man. Weak-willed. Good for a toss. _Lapdog_.” John turns from Sherlock, ignoring his own pain and kneels down next to Sophy. He puts pressure on her chest, and she manages a strangled laugh, blood bubbling up from her lips.

“You know it was an act.” Sherlock blinks and ignores her. “Why ever did you and Lestrade wait so long to intervene?”

“I knew you remembered.” She’s blinking and looking over John’s shoulder at Sherlock. “But not it all. Or else.”

“Or else I’d remember you’re the cause of my memory loss?”

“You do remember.”

“No, I deduced it. I know you were there. You hit me, didn't you? But the rest you witnessed today, of course was an act. A stellar performance. I could win, what did they used to call it? The academy award?”

“You big, egocentric wanker,” John says.

“How is she?” Mycroft asks.

“As if you care,” Sophy moans.

“I care more than you realize, Ms. Kratides.” Mycroft says.

“It’s pretty bad. Missed her heart but clipped her lung. We need to get her to hospital.”

Sherlock can’t help recalling the other words he’d said during his performance. About love. He’s twitching a bit himself overthinking why he even said such a thing. It seemed like an excellent idea when he said it. In retrospect, he may have gone into the not good area.

Winston rouses Sherlock and John from their thoughts by clearing his throat. “Have any of you called for a car? Dr. Watson said she needs to get treatment. I know she’s not a nice person, but from where I stand, she’s not the only one here that needs real medical assistance.”

“Oi! I am real medical assistance!” John says.

“And you need almost as much assistance as she does!” Winston says, smiling.

“No one’s going to die,” John says.

“But they have!” she says to Mycroft. “You killed her!”

“Sophy, do shut up,” Mycroft says.

“Mycroft, do have some respect for the woman who almost killed me, and who’s inadvertently discovered who was behind Pandora,” Sherlock says. “Sophy, I want to thank you for giving me the missing piece of information I needed. I may tell you myself after I’ve confirmed it.”

“I hope you plan to share afterward,” Mycroft says.

“I will.” He pushes back the pain and nausea he feels and steps closer to his brother. “She also gave light to one other puzzle. I know what really happened to our sister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From one cliffhanger to another! Aren't we bad! Don't worry, more revealed in the next chapter.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one more chapter, then the epilogue. At the beginning of the week when revising this chapter, I went in thinking of how to add to what our vision was for the ending of this story. We'd written this last summer, but revised much as we went, changing basic premises and points in the plot. As the story progressed, it's called for a lot more revision. All for the better.
> 
> I'm really proud of the chapter below. It's a work of love and also, filled with suspense. And you thought the last chapter was a ride? Meet this one (and the next).

Even as Sherlock said those hurtful words to Sophy, John knew there’s a bit of truth in them. After all, Sherlock told him the most believable lies have a hint of truth behind them. And maybe he does follow Sherlock around a bit like a lapdog, but the man needs taking care of. God knows Sherlock won’t do it himself.

An ambulance arrives, which surprises John. Mycroft must have waved some hefty donations under Beca’s nose. Sherlock holds John’s hand as they shift John gently onto the gurney. John knows a few of the emergency medical team who lift him: Thomas and Arthur, or Art, as he likes to be called. John chats them up a bit as they check and strap John in.

John thinks he really doesn’t need this much attention. It’s not so bad. Swab his side with antiseptic, a few stitches, a plaster, and send him on his way. Sherlock, however, doesn’t seem to think so: he’s hovering. He reluctantly lets go of John’s hand one finger at a time as Art takes his vitals. When Lestrade says he needs to speak to Sherlock, he doesn’t want to leave John’s side, but John waves them away.

They don’t go far. In fact, they stand no more than three feet from John’s gurney, discussing Mycroft.

“He’s bossing us about like he’s in charge,” Greg complains.

“He always has. Just ignore him. That’s what I do.”

“That might not be so easy. He wants to take John and Ms. Kradites to London! Some  private, posh hospital— as if Cardiff Royal Infirmary isn’t good enough,” Greg says.

“Transporting them that far would not be wise,” Sherlocks says and immediately stomps off to speak to his brother. John can’t hear or see the discussion, but when he returns, Sherlock looks pleased with himself.

“Get anywhere?” Greg asks.

“John and your suspect will go to Cardiff Royal. I assured Mycroft that you will keep Ms Kratides under close inspection although expect him to have a few of his own men watching her as well.”

“And you’ll keep a close watch on Watson,” Greg winks and pats Sherlock on the back.

John strains to hear more, but Greg and Sherlock step farther away. Greg voice raises a few times—  something about “close calls” and “stupid choices” when Mycroft clears his throat. He’s standing next to John and lingers near as the paramedic rechecks John’s blood pressure. How did he miss Mycroft? He’s like a damn stealth cat. Even as Mycroft squints down, John feels a bit like Mycroft’s prey.

Prone or not, looking down on people is what John suspects Mycroft does most of the time.

“My brother was never the type of person to get close to others,” Mycroft says quietly. “What is it about you, Dr. Watson? What mysterious fabric are you made from that Sherlock prizes? More than that, you’ve become requisite for him. Therefore, to keep him safe, I must trust you to care for him. In turn, you must care for yourself. Please do a better job in the future and do not get shot again.”

“I’ll try,” John says.  

And he will because he finds Sherlock just as important, but not because Mycroft demands it. John can’t hide how he feels, and he no longer wants to try to hide it. Greg sees it. Mycroft sees it. His heart knows what it wants.

“My brother is a complicated man,” Mycroft continues. “He can project what he wants others to see. Be certain before you continue that you understand what he really is.”

John doesn’t need to ask what Sherlock is.

“He’s just a man,” John says. “And he’s a good man.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrow. How could Mycroft question that? They’re brothers!

John knows exactly what Sherlock is. A miracle. That day when Sherlock grasped his wrist and pulled John up on the roof, he also pulled John back into life.

He could argue with Mycroft. Tell him that what he sees in Sherlock is not just what John wants to see. He sees Sherlock Holmes, genius. Not perfect. But either is he. Far from it.

He chooses to ignore Mycroft instead.

Mycroft clasps his hands behind his back, waiting for John to say more, but the painkiller has slowed John’s mind, and really, he has nothing more to say. Sophy, on the other hand, does.

“I hate you,” she says. Each word she utters is punctuated by a sucking sound coming from her chest wound.  

The paramedic hushes her, then applies pressure. She hisses back at him.

“Breathe out, please,” Thomas instructs. She does, and her eyes flutter shut in pain as Thomas tapes up the wound.

“You…” she gasps, eyes popping back open, “could have saved her.”

John can’t believe the woman is still talking. Something must be driving her, but he’s seen some strange cases with bullet wounds over the years. He once treated a man shot six times who lucidly discussed for over an hour his plans for Christmas.

“If I could have saved my sister, I would have saved my sister,” Mycroft says flatly.

“Liar,” she coughs, her voice low and strained.

Thomas shakes his head. “Please,” Thomas says, giving Sophy then Mycroft a stern look. “She must rest.”

But Sophy ignores Thomas. “You kept her. From me. You locked. Her away.”

“It was never about you, Sophy. My sister was as ill as are you. Even as a child, you embraced the atrocities she did, and you helped her kill Redbeard. You encouraged her behavior!”

John’s heart races. His sister and Sophy killed Sherlock’s dog?! My god. No wonder Sherlock blocked it. John tries to see Sherlock’s reaction, but he’s half hidden from John’s eyesight beside Greg.  

“You kept her,” Sophy struggles out, unable to let it go. “You confined her. Confused her. From what. She could. Have been.”

“From becoming a homicidal maniac like yourself? Or did my sister mold you into what you’ve become? Either way, keeping you two a part for as long as I did saved more lives.”

Thomas shakes his head. John understands the paramedic's frustration, but his concerns run toward Sherlock not Sophy. Through his haze, John recalls their mum’s words. How Sherlock blocked Eurus from his memory. How Eurus burned the family home, did it as they slept. She tried to kill them all. What effect is listening to all this having on Sherlock?

John doesn’t know Mycroft well, but it’s obvious that he’s as smart at his younger brother. That’s why John understands this confrontation with Sophy has a much deeper purpose. This was not for Sophy’s sake. This was for Sherlock’s.

Greg walks over to Anderson. John sees that Mycroft has Sherlock’s complete attention.

“He,” she says, nodding in painful jerks at Sherlock, ”I begged him. In the end. He didn’t. Save her.”

“If he had done as you demanded, you and Sherlock would be dead and not my sister.”

“Mr. Holmes,” Thomas says, “I must insist! I’ll ask Lt. Lestrade to escort you away if you don’t stop aggravating my patient.”

Thomas prepares a syringe, then injects the needle into Sophy’s arm with what John is most certainly believes is a sedative.

“I don’t think you understand _who_ I am,” Mycroft says.

“I don’t think I care,” Thomas says, as he swabs her arm with gauze after. “Don’t put her under any more stress.”

“I hate you,” she whispers to Mycroft.

“I understand that, Sophy. Do as this good man says and save your strength.”

Whatever Thomas gave her begins to take effect. Her eyes start to slip shut, yet she struggles to speak. “I n-never. G-got to. S-say. G-goodbye.”

“Ms. Kratides, you need to relax,” Thomas says.

Sophy finally succumbs to the sedative. She rides to Cardiff Memorial under Greg and Mycroft’s watchful eyes while Sherlock rides with John.

John watches him carefully. As the ambulance begins to move, a weary Sherlock sits beside him.

“You forgot to take your meds, didn’t you? Your pupils are dilated.” John knows Art is a paramedic and a good one. John gets his attention. “Sherlock needs to be looked after as well. I’d appreciate it if you’d check his vitals.”

“Oi. Sure will, doc.” He looks from John to Sherlock. “Anything I should know?”

“Sherlock has a history of seizures from head trauma and is on anti-seizure medication.”

John watches as the Sherlock reluctantly lets the paramedic check his pulse and blood pressure.

“There’s no need,” Sherlock says. “I only have a headache.”

“It was brought on by what your brother said about Eurus, wasn't it?” John asks.

“Mycroft? No, Sophy. I remember. John. I…”

John and Art know it’s happening before Sherlock seems to. His pale eyes begin to roll back and his arms and legs quake. It’s terrifying for John to witness and be unable to help. Art gently lies Sherlock down flat and monitors him carefully. He’s not convulsing, and it’s over as fast as it started. John’s relieved to see that Sherlock remains conscious although disoriented.

When they reach Cardiff Memorial, Sherlock thinks he’s well enough to stand and walk, but Art refuses to let him. John appreciates how Art is as stubborn as Sherlock.

“John, I need to tell you what I remember,” Sherlock insists.

"That was different. The seizure," John observes. Sherlock nods. 

Worried that talking about Eurus without proper rest may well send Sherlock into a spiral, John’s reluctance is visible. He hesitates.

“John, it is impairative that we speak about my memory returning.” Sherlock reads John so well.

“Let’s get you looked at first, and I’m set to get stitched up. It will keep. You need to rest. I’ll find you when I’m done.”

John appreciates how fast they patch him up in A&E. All the while he’s second guessing about Sherlock. The knot in his stomach gets tighter as he thinks about how he put Sherlock off. Maybe he should have gone with him and spoke to him immediately. He hates leaving Sherlock with his own thoughts, which could be far worse than words. A nurse is putting on his plaster when Beca walks in the room.

“Alrigh’, heard you and Sherlock were here. Lt. Lestrade filled me in on some of it. Is everything tidy?” she says.

“Long story, but it looks as if Sherlock’s finally got his brother back with his memory. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you could just get Dr. Michaels ,the A&E doc on call, to release me. I don’t know him enough and pleading isn’t doing any good.”

“He’s doctor on loan from Lansdowne,” she says. “Are you certain you should be about? Doctors make the worst patients!”

“Beca, it’s really only a superficial wound. I really need to see Sherlock. He’s had one of his episodes and really needs to speak to me. He seems to have remembered more.”

“His seizures are triggered from returning memories then.”

“More than likely.”

“I put it a word with Dr. Michaels for you if you do me a favor: I really need Sherlock to continue on in the morgue with Molly. He’s been tremendous asset! The publicity alone has driven up donations.”

“I’ll do my best,” John promises. “I know you need to keep those coffers full!”

When he gets to Sherlock’s room, John stops in the door. White sheets compliment his dark, unruly curls, framing his closed eyes and making Sherlock look otherworldly. His arm curls around his head, contrasting his handsome, angular features. His lips slightly part, and John wonders how one man could be this ungodly attractive.

Sherlock opens his eyes and the world comes alive inside John.

“I see your limp has returned.”

“It’s a stitch in my side.”

“Eight stitches to be precise.” Sherlock smirks.

He’s right, of course, the wanker.

As those lips turn up at the corners, John loves him all the more. John drags a chair over next to Sherlock’s bed and takes a seat close to his head.

“I believe I’m in a paradox of sorts,” Sherlock begins. “I wanted to remember and now that I do, I am less certain of who I really am.”

“What makes you say that?” John asks.

“I remember coming to Cardiff and before. I remember my mission: to locate the ‘terrorists’ who held the bio-weapon and if at all possible find that weapon. I was to notify Mycroft of the location, and if at all possible, to neutralize the threat by any means possible.”

John wonders about “by any means possible.” Was Sherlock expected to make the decision to neutralize the threat all alone? He wonders why Sherlock doesn’t question it as well.

“Over the last weeks after I found out who I was, I searched for information about Sherlock Holmes. I could never find as much about myself as Mycroft. More curious was that although I found secondary references, such as mentions in private blogs, I found none of my personal accounts. I remember why now. Those were scrubbed from Twitter, Facebook, all social media. Mycroft did most of it. Stories from defunct news agencies were deleted. A few articles regarding me that were shared remained online— all of which would be impossible to expunge. But Mycroft’s machinations couldn’t account for every deletion...”

“Sophy?” John asks, and Sherlock nods. John sighs. This isn’t as bad as it could be, he thinks. “She wanted to keep you from remembering. Seems extreme, but she’s really off. But it’s all a bit heartening, don’t you think? People remembering you despite efforts to delete you? All those people commenting on my blog? They say they believe in you.”

“Their belief is misplaced. I failed. I was too late. I slipped into the labs, but Pandora was ready to be dispersed and shipped off. I came face to face with Ms. Sophy Kratides and some former members of Moriarty’s organization that night. I know someone tipped them off that I was coming. I may never know who. That matters little. What does matter? People are dead. That night Sherlock Holmes’ memory ends and Will’s begins. Will was born in an empty alley near the wharf. My amnesia was not dissociative as you supposed. It was clearly head trauma. I was hit in the head from behind. I never saw who did it.”

John decides not to disagree. Yet. “Sophy?”

“No, she was standing in front of me. Threatening me.”

The whoosh of a door swinging open stops their words.

“There you are, John!” she says, bouncing up to the other side of the bed across from John. “Just checking on my number one patient!” Beca pats Sherlock’s hand.

Sherlock flinches. John leans closer, reaches for Sherlock’s other hand and holds it tight.

“I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,” John says.

“Aren’t you two cozy!” she says, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. “I guess I didn’t understand completely how things have changed between you. I must admit I rather expected as much.”

John blushes a bit, and Sherlock gives John a shy smile.

Beca crosses her leg and leans in closer to Sherlock. “If you need anything, let the nurses know. I heard they’ll be keeping you overnight for observation, but you should be free to return to John’s flat in the morning.”

“I’d rather go home,” Sherlock says. “Now.”

“I do think it’s wise to stay the night. Listen to the doctors, that’s what I always say.”

“I think she’s right in this case,” John says. “I can stay the night.”

“No, you should feed Blackbeard and check on Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock says. “But I would like you to stay a bit longer.”

Beca takes the hint. “Don’t forget,” she says, “if you need anything, just press the call button.”  She stands and straightens her skirt before she leaves with a wave goodbye.

“I’ll come back after,” John says. “I want to.”

“There’s no need for that. You are an ogre without good rest. Get some sleep in a real bed not that horrible excuse of a chair you’re sitting in. I will be fine. If I need anything, I’ll text.”

John chuckles. “Oi. I know how that works! I’ll never get any rest.”

Sherlock stares at the door, deep in thought. John looks down at their hands together and gives a squeeze, then softly brushes his thumb across Sherlock’s knuckles.

“You still don’t get it,” John says. “You couldn’t save us, and I don’t agree with your diagnosis. Head trauma may have set your memory loss in motion, but it was dissociative. Having the responsibility of the world on your shoulders was the cause. I’m certain. I’ve said it all along.”

“I made a choice, John. You heard it. Not all of it. What she said to Mycroft just touched on it. Yes, I chose Pandora. If I would have known how devastating Pandora would become, I might have made a different choice, but I did not. It seemed the best option at the time. And I thought, deep inside, that Mycroft would make the final choice for me.”

“What are you saying?”

“One strategic thermonuclear weapon. It would have killed what eugenicists made in their labs, and what was destined to be shipped off in Cardiff’s port. It was the only way to neutralize Pandora. I did not pull the trigger...push the bottom...blow us to kingdom come. I chose Pandora. I thought...I didn’t realize. I couldn’t do it. All I had to do was text Mycroft the key, and Pandora never would have happened.”

John sits in disbelief. “That was the key?! To nuke Cardiff?”

“One key among many, but the most costly. Sophy screamed for me to send the text to Mycroft. Moriarty’s men were livid at her, but she wanted me to blow us to Hell. I did not. The result was a pandemic.”

“Wait, you said someone hit you from behind. That’s when it happened. Someone stopped you!”

“There was nothing to stop.”

“But there was the chance.” John grips Sherlock’s hand tighter. “Either way, it was an impossible choice. By not releasing that nuke, you saved over 400 thousand people.”

“And myself.”

“That wasn't the reason.”

“I am not so sure. What am I? I am not a hero. I don’t even think that I’m a good person.”

“That’s not true. I know you’re a good person. I don’t understand what makes you believe you aren’t.”

“I haven’t treated those who have cared about me well in the past. I’m callous and selfish. I insult people, berate and belittle them, hurt them to achieve my ends. Apparently I still do.”

John sighs. He wants to pull his hair out, but he refuses to let go of Sherlock’s hand.

“Stop! Yes, you’re a wanker at times, but you didn’t let it happen. You had an impossible choice. You say you remember what you were like? I know you, and you’re for shite at interpreting human emotions! Tell me what you did as a consulting detective for Scotland Yard? How many crimes did you solve?”

“Hundreds.”

“So, you saved lives. Brought people to justice. And along the way, you hurt a few people’s feelings. Boohoo! Small price, I’d say.”

“I solve crimes because I enjoy the challenge, not to bring people to justice.”

“And I went to war because I wanted excitement.”

“What I said about Pandora to Sophy Kratides, about the people who died, how I was happy they died? It was despicable. What if I wanted to happen? What if  there are things that I still don’t remember? Maybe I am a monster.”

“Believe me. You are no monster. Far from it.”

“John, I wish I could be what you need, but I am not.”

“So _you_  know what I need now? For someone who didn’t have his memory not so long ago, you sure do know a lot.”

“I know that someone needs to help Lestrade write up his report,” Sherlock says, letting go of John’s hand. “It should be me.”

The Sherlock John knows would never volunteer to give a statement to Greg Lestrade. It’s his way of brushing John off.

“You’ve been shot, and I am the one crying on your shoulder. You need to go home and rest. Quit being my caretaker and take care of yourself. Lestrade will be in soon to take my statement. If you’re so worried I’ll be lonely, he’ll keep me company for a bit.”

John can’t help himself. He feels a pang of jealousy.

“When did you eat last?” John asks. “At least let me get one of the nurses to bring you a tray.”

John stands up reluctantly. Sherlock gives a long-suffering sigh. John guesses if that’s not a send off, he doesn’t know what is.

John finds Anderson and asks him to take him home. On the ride back, he watches out the window at the empty Cardiff streets and can’t let it go—  he knew this was going to happen! Sherlock would remember, and it would change everything. Sherlock just sent him home. He shouldn’t have gone. He never projected this outcome: He didn’t think Sherlock would hate himself so much that he couldn’t let John love him.

He steps out of the police vehicle as Anderson grunts goodbye, and it’s raining. Of course it is. He climbs the stairs to the flat. His one set of footsteps sound so hollow, and Blackbeard’s lonesome meow at the door sounds like John’s future.

He makes some toast and tea and feeds the cat. He's sure Mrs. Hudson already has since Blackbeard turns his nose up at lowly kibble. John stands in the living room ten minutes before he turns on the telly. He needs voices other than his own to fill his head. Nothing much on anymore but reruns, but in a fashion, those are more comforting.

He watches a bit of “Keeping Up Appearances,” but he can’t stop coming back to Sherlock’s choice. He can’t judge him for it. He’s not even sure if that’s the way it happened. Maybe that blow to the head stopped him. Maybe they knocked him senseless before he could choose. John’s mind is wound tight and ready to unspool into a fine mess. If his is in this state, he worries more about Sherlock’s.

It was only this morning that they kissed and held each other. It seemed so simple then. But life isn’t simple and happiness never lasts. Not for John Watson.

He washes up. He should be hungry, but he’s not.

He turns off the telly, then goes to bed. Blackbeard follows. He pulls off his jeans and jumper puts on his well-worn sweats and t-shirt. He lies awake staring at the ceiling, thinking how empty it feels without Sherlock. Blackbeard seems to think so too and cuddles up next to his side. He finally falls off, but his mind is waiting, waiting for the door to open. A door that may never open again.

He wakes, not an hour later. His mind won’t shut off.

It’s scary to be in love. Terrifying. You have to put faith and trust in someone else. It’s why he never wanted to fall again. But it’s too late. He fell in love with William. He is in love with Sherlock.

John thinks of what he wants at this moment. He wants them both: William and Sherlock. He wants the man who calls himself Sherlock to find himself and happiness. John hoped he might be part of that happiness.

He turns and looks at the clock on the nightstand. It’s almost 2 a.m., and he’s certain that happiness is there in the world somewhere, it’s just not out there for him. He thinks as he dozes.

He imagines instead happiness is waiting out there. His mind skips awake to the conjured sound of Sherlock coming home. John holds his breath to what it’s like to hear him walk through the flat. To see him linger near John’s bedroom door. Sherlock has made tea and holds the cup and saucer as he leans against the doorframe. John imagines kissing him. That Sherlock tastes like the honeyed tea he’s sipping. He envisions Sherlock’s hair where it curls and the sweet tang of how the nape of his neck tastes against John’s lips.

John ticks away the seconds and minutes in his head, but the real Sherlock doesn’t enter. Blackbeard jumps off the bed. John hears him purr and preen on the floor.

Then the violin plays in John's head. A slow movement starts softly, building into a bittersweet ache that climbs inside John’s heart. He sits up on the edge of his bed. It’s almost real to him. He recalls Sherlock playing and how they danced. He recalls those first gasps of morning light pouring through the windows, the emotive powers of the music filling him. Suddenly John is awash in a thousand tears. The timbre and tones slowly shift and call to him in his memory. It beckons.

It’s scary to be in love. Terrifying. You have to put faith and trust in someone else. But he is. God, he is. He hopes that Sherlock can forgive himself.

John recalls a silhouette, cradling his violin like a lover. Moving the bow with passion. John wants to be Sherlock’s passion. John wipes his eyes and gets out of bed. He stands in the doorway and listens as Sherlock finishes his Sonata in his mind.

His head jerks up at a sudden rattling. It’s his mobile vibrating against the wood of the bedside table. There’s this sudden realization— that there’s not another match out there for John Watson. Only Sherlock. There’s no one else John wants to impress but Sherlock Holmes. Only this man matters.

Like a lifeline, he wildly races to the bzzzt...bzzzt...bzzzt from the mobile. He taps the screen.

_May have misjudged situation. SH_

_Come immediately. Or sooner. SH_

John scrambles for his service revolver under the bed and makes sure it’s loaded with proper bullets this time.

 _On way._  John texts back.

His bare feet feel cool against the wood on floor as he dresses. His hand grasps the railing as he races down the stairs and out the door. He pushes Sherlock’s number on his mobile for the third time.

There’s still no answer.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say it? Another cliffhanger ending...and BAMF John to the rescue!


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first section of the chapter wasn’t written until this week. The last half was written this summer. It's so exciting and a bit sad having this so close to the end. During those lazy days when we were first creating this, little did we know how well loved this story would become. We are grateful to all of those who have followed along and all those who come to it now and read it in one long shot. Thank you for all of the Kudos and comments along the way.

He intended to pretend to sleep. What Sherlock hadn’t intended was to actually fall asleep. His years on the streets kicked in with the quiet opening of the door.

As his eyes open heavily, the room seems awash in dark holes and dead zones. His stomach roils. His hands shake, and he can’t stop them.

“There you are,” she says. “All alone.”

 _Drugged._ He expected it. He’d watched the nurse on call carefully— a young man too stupid to deceive Sherlock, yet he hadn’t seen it happen. Conclusion: IV was tagged and tainted when the nurse hooked up the bag.

 _Curious_. Irregular, racing pulse. Nausea. Distorted vision. Grogginess. Intention: to make him helpless. Result achieved.

“No use pushing that call button,” she says. “It’s disconnected. Not that your hands will be of any use.”

“I expected as much.” His words are slow, slurred; his mind reduced to single thread of thoughts. It’s so... _normal_. Except not. She walks around the bed and lifts the sheet. She plucks the mobile from his feeble hand.

 _Beca, Beca, Beca_. John will be so disappointed. He'd liked Ms. Bellin. A lot. Sherlock did too in a fashion. Although he’d thought she was a bit of a bore. Always good to be a bit surprised. The sheer complexity! Pretending to be a micromanaging administrator when in reality she was a master criminal kingpin. The woman hid her true essence and proved to be a crafty adversary.

She’s set it up so well, too. But he’s done better, or so he hopes. He knew she’d never miss the opportunity gloat over besting Sherlock Holmes.

 _So predictable_.

“It’s a cocktail,” he says to her. He needs to know of what drugs. His mind has found twenty-five possible combinations, but he can’t narrow down the data.

“Correct. I’d say you have about ten minutes or less.” Gone are the musical Welsh rhythmic inflections replaced by British RP.

His heart feels like it’s beating out of his chest. His minds struggles to scan through drugs that trigger fatal arrhythmias. He’s seen Cardiff Infirmary pharmacy, but he can’t access what he needs. It’s mixed up and jumbled inside his head. He does manage to narrow the possibilities down, but he's so slow! He’s become all those normal people he detests! How do they stand it?!

“I’ll just take a seat on the bed and get comfortable to watch the show.” She slides Sherlock’s legs to the side and sits down on the bed.

He can’t stand her near. His skin feels like ants are crawling over him.

“I need to watch you closely. I need to make sure that when I finally do call for assistance, there will be no chance to revive you. You see, I do care what happens to you.”

“A fatal flaw.”

She barks out a laugh. “You have such a deliciously dark sense of humor. I see why my brother loved you so. He was so intrigued with you. Obsessively. I do think that he even loved you or at least the challenge of you.”

Sherlock tries to grimace, but the effect is more like a twitch of his mouth. Whatever is she blabbering on about? Her brother?

“You look terrible yet still so handsome. Even when you were homeless, you were attractive. Such a shame to destroy such beauty. I am sorry that it came to this.”

She sits quietly for a bit, staring down at him.

“I was so hoping that you would come around to our side.” She sighs and looks at her hands, then back into Sherlock’s face. “I thought Sophy would convince you. It would have been nice if she had. Sadly, you seem to have some sort of moral code that I really hadn’t expected. I thought it was always all about the game for you. That’s what I was told. I did need to continue my brother’s legacy, and you were simply in the way.”

Sherlock frowns. He missed it. _Brother? Game?_   It’s always something. _Moriarty_ , he thinks. Of course.

She sees the recognition in his eyes and takes his limp hand and shakes it. “Marilyn Rebeca Moriarty. Pleased to formally meet you at last. I only wish my brother could witness this. Me besting you instead of him.”

“Bravo.” Sherlock voice cracks as he says it. He closes his eyes as his throat spasms.

“Oh, dear. You can still speak? Nevermind, only a few more minutes until you’re completely incapacitated.”

He needs to know. What is it? He sees little or no color. Acute toxicity of…

“What?” he struggles to say.

“Did I give you? I’m not telling!” she sings out. “Guess! Oh, but you can’t. That mind of yours is all a-jumble!”

She sounds like Jim when she says it. He doesn’t know why he never saw it.

She pats his knee. “Still thinking you’re going to be saved? No one is coming. I have your mobile. John is sound asleep in bed. But I have come to keep you company in your final minutes.”

She’s wrong. Someone will come. However, his mind can’t recall why he believes it— 

“I am so, so sorry. Really I am. The donations your brother Mycroft made were so generous, those of your wealthy following padded my pockets nicely, but not enough to make up for what  you’ve cost me on the streets. I was thinking of quitting my day job until you and John Watson decided to become such good ‘mates.’ I thought you might be around. But I never dreamed you walk right through my office door.”

He’s having distinct problems understanding her words.

“You are too much trouble. Time to for you to leave.”

She pinches his leg hard and he flinches. Then she takes his wrist and feels his pulse. “Not done yet. I do wish you’d hurry up and die. I have so much to do today.”

“No.”

“No?” she laughs, then bends down closely, her face inches from his. “The great Sherlock Holmes says no to death. I’m so sorry. There’s no refusing death. Listen closely, you can hear him calling.”

His heart pumps and spasms, he can’t catch his breath. He may have misjudged how long it would take John to...John? John be so disappointed in Sherlock— running off and dying on him this way. John has already lost so much. It’s not fair. He can’t die. Sherlock never told him those words. He needs…

“Tears? From the great Sherlock Holmes? I’m disappointed!” 

Even as she says those, he thinks she’s really not.

“Interesting choice of words." That voice! "I think that makes him human, which is more than I can say for you.” It's John! He came. He knew it! Sherlock can just make out his form standing in the doorway with Lestrade behind him. “Disappointed?! I'm disappointed. I thought you were someone to look up to. Someone who cared. It turns out you’re nothing but criminal.”

“John, you’ve always had over-high expectations when it comes to others,” she says. "But you friend hasn't much time. Care to say goodbye?"

“Step away from him or else…”

“It seems he’s in need of medical attention.” she says, “but I’m afraid you’ve come too late.”

He feels Beca shift off the bed. She’s trapped. In a swirling haze in his mind he laughs at the irony. They’ll arrest her for the murder of Sherlock Holmes. At least there’s that. Case solved.

Sherlock can barely sort any of it. His mind repeats “I don’t want to die.” He refuses to be the victim. Not in this case. He and John will have their life together. But he’s fading. He only learned what it is to love someone. He can’t go. He wants the chance to show John he can be more. He _can_ love in return. _I need more time. I can be what John needs. I don’t want to die._

“I won’t let you.” It’s John. John heard him. The room is one large black hole, and he’s falling into it. It may be too late. Too late.

“What did she give you?” John asks.

Sherlock tries to open his mouth to answer. He thinks he has it. John turns grabs Beca’s arms. Even through the dark tunnel, Sherlock sees John’s anger, John’s rage. He shakes her so hard that her head snaps back and whips forward over and over until Lestrade stops him from rattling her brains out.

“What did you give him?!” John screams again. She laughs, spitting in his face as she does.

Sherlock is trying to tell him. He really is. He doesn’t want to die. There were many times in his life when didn’t care if he died. He cares now. He has something, someone, to live for.

“Dioxin,” he chokes out. “Sedative.”

How had he misjudged this? He was certain he’d sent John the text message in enough time so John would reach him before she managed to kill him.

The room is in a sudden chaos. Where is John? He needs to know. It’s selfish to say it when it’s too late, but he can’t let what he feels die even if he must.

“John, I love you.”

Then it all goes to black.

————————--

As Sherlock puts down the violin, he steps into the middle of the living room.

“You were right as always,” John says. “About how I feel. I’m just pants about talking about...feelings...”

“John...I am sorry when I said it, not that I said it.”

“I’m not sorry. Not at all. But I almost lost you because of that stunt. No more stunts. I know it all. You tell me. Immediately. As for how much I care about you, I’m glad you said it then. I wanted to know that it’s true, because it’s true for me as well. But you already know that.”

Sherlock almost hates himself for being here in the flat. Almost. He should stay as far away from John Watson as possible. Sherlock feels he’s not good for John. But he can’t stop himself. In hospital, John never left him. Not for a second. After his heart almost stopped, it became so slow, that John told him, they’d thought they were going to lose him on three occasions. But he came back. Sherlock believes John is the miracle that saved him. He’s always there. He closes his eyes and sees him, John Watson, the faithful magnet to which Sherlock is inevitably drawn. John makes him want to be a better person. Sherlock wants to be more for him. He promises himself that he will be a better man. For John. But more, for himself.

As John comes closer, Sherlock becomes determined to dash the sad, pleading look from John’s eyes and replace it with fire and hope.

He welcomes John as he takes the last step, and they stand toe-to-toe. He wants to stop thinking. John has been so careful of Sherlock since he came home. Like he’s going to break in two.

“I’m not fragile.” Sherlock says. “Please.”

 _That’s it._ John’s eyes flicker to Sherlock’s mouth, and Sherlock relives the tactile memory of how warm and excruciatingly soft John’s lips are. He grasps John’s old London Calling t-shirt and pulls him in. He doesn’t know what the Clash is, but he takes the title as an invite as he fits their lips together.

On contact, Sherlock stifles a noise in the back of his throat. He’s longed for John to touch him.

John’s real kiss is insistent. His tongue sweeps against Sherlock’s and slowly traces the roof of Sherlock’s mouth. The kiss is long, lingering and when John releases Sherlock’s lips, they remain parted in a gasp. His eyelids flutter, his face hot. Somewhere along the way Sherlock’s hands have twisted themselves tighter into the front of John’s t-shirt.

Sherlock wants to let go— embrace his emotions. It’s so easy to do as John wraps his arms around his waist and crushes his body. Sherlock appreciates the strength of John’s biceps. He takes Sherlock’s mouth again. Sherlock’s pulse races, and he counts. It’s a bit obsessive— 128 beats per minute is high but within male arousal limits. His pulse raises as John’s very impressive erection rubs against Sherlock’s upper thigh. Sherlock opens them purposefully in invitation.

“On the bed,” John says. Good. No more coddling. Sherlock obeys and crawls across. He stretches out on his back, flat on the bed. He tucks his arm under his head and watches John’s every movement.

John slips off his robe and pulls his t-shirt over his head. He drops his sweats in a heap on the floor, then crawls across the bed next to Sherlock. He props himself up on his elbow and scans Sherlock, checking. Then John leans and presses his face into where Sherlock’s long neck and shoulder meet. Immediately arms and legs weave together, and Sherlock breathes, he’s shaking from head to toe. It’s only transport, he tells himself. He works to calm himself. He needs methodology, step-by-step scientific procedure to explore all that is John Watson.

“Want me to help you take these off?” John asks. Sherlock nods in a daze. And counts: 168 with a regular rhythm.

John rolls, shifts into him, on top of him. And all Sherlock’s nerve ending spark into overload. As John’s hands brush his skin at his waist his finger tugs at the top of his scrubs, and he helps Sherlock slide them over his head. Skilled fingers find the tie on the bottoms and pull them loose.

John reaches inside with one hand, while the other inches them over his hips. From there, John works methodically down with his mouth, spit cooling Sherlock’s breastbone as John’s tongue forges a trail downward.

Sherlock can’t help but touch John’s body. It keeps his mind off the panic he feels within. He lets his long fingers distract him as he explores the curve of John’s back, the pivot of his neck. John laps a path down the center Sherlock’s chest then veers off to suck at his nipples. He keeps his tongue flat with every rough-tongued lick.

He’s dizzy and gasping. Sherlock back arches up off the bed, pressing closer, wanting solid contact and at the same time counting. His hands grasp John’s hips, and he shifts against John until their cocks are together. It should be a delectable rub, but Sherlock can’t catch his breath to enjoy it fully. John lifts his chest up and looks at Sherlock. He sees it. John’s body stiffens on top of him.

“Sherlock! What’s wrong!” John rolls off of Sherlock on to his side.

Sherlock gasps. “Panic attack. Heart rate 212. Can’t. Catch. Breath.”

John’s in doctor mode. He’s checking Sherlock’s pulse, checking his eyes, his breathing. “This is my fault,” John says, as he brushes sweaty curls off Sherlock’s forehead.

“N-no,” Sherlock stutters. “N-not your fault. Mine. I don’t deserve...” Sherlock hand flops into John’s chest. “This.”

“Bloody hell, yes you do!” John sighs, lips pursed in determination. He fixes his glare at Sherlock’s face until he captures Sherlock’s eyes. “I knew we should have talked more first. I told myself I’d never do this again. Not talk about things.”

“About feelings?” Here he lies, half erect yet thinking he’s still verging on heart failure yet John persists on talking about “feelings,” and he’s tell John this if he could speak.

“Yes. I hate talking about them. Always have. I spent years in counseling not talking about them. But now. Sherlock we have to. I know you hate it just as much.”

“Maybe more.”

John hiccups a laugh. “Yeah, maybe more. But we got to talk about what you chose.” John sits up. He’s naked and still very aroused, but pulls the sheet over his lap. “Or didn’t.”

“Must we?” This isn’t just a talk about them. Sherlock would much prefer that.

“Without a doubt. First let’s talk about that supposed choice you made. Use that big brain of yours. You didn’t _choose_ Pandora. In what universe would _anyone_ give _you_ ‘the button’ to push? Sherlock, you never were the one to make the choice. If anyone, it would be that huge arsed Machiavellian brother of yours.”

Sherlock blinks. “The code.”

“Yeah, well do you seriously think that entering that key code would have detonated it?”

“But I had the code. The mobile. I never…”

“...sent the code...the code to Mycroft, who had the real key— or maybe not. You knew, you said it. Maybe...maybe you couldn’t stop it. Maybe it didn’t matter. It happened so fast. The world went mad.”

John suddenly looks so lost to Sherlock that he pushes past his dizzy state, raises up off the bed and kisses John. It’s a chaste kiss, lips together, but passionate nonetheless. He wants John to know, to see, that he’s not alone. And he wants to feel the same. It’s the correct choice. John relaxes against him.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says.

“Good, now that we’ve settled that, let’s talk about the other choice,” John says, but he’s staring at Sherlock’s lips like he wants them back on his.

“What?” he chokes out.

“Don’t play dumb. I heard you say it. You thought you were dying, so you said it. You already know how I feel. Although I really need to say it too. Let’s start with me, then to...the other supposed choice. First. You implied how you felt moments ago. We’ve been dancing around it. People say you can’t choose who you love, and maybe you can’t but you can choose who pursue a relationship with, who you spend your life with.”

“Not long ago I considered myself married to my work,” Sherlock says, closing his eyes. “I said many disparaging things about relationships. But now…” His face feels hot, but his heart rate is slowing, and he can breath. He’s still a bit dizzy, but he’s not going to lose consciousness. He thinks he can live with a bit of blushing.

“But now?”

“Since you came into my life, I no longer feel that way.” Yes, his cheeks continue to warm, but a part of him welcomes it.

“Good. That’s good.”

“I know the whole of my life now, John. What I was before, what I am now. I am not the same, and it’s because of you. It’s always you, John Watson. You make me right. My past is a part of me, but I want what’s before me to have you in it.”

Sherlock can’t help his lips quivering as John takes his hand and holds in tight. No one has ever affected him like this and no one ever will. It’s unsettling and reassuring all the once.

“Sherlock. You make me right too.”

“I think you always were. Right.”

“No, I wasn’t.” He smiles at Sherlock, and takes his finger and traces his jawline. Sherlock’s amazed at how such endearing actions come natural to John. He hopes he can do the same. John shakes his head as he repeats himself. “I was one fucked up man.  After my family died, I’d wake up every morning and wish I was dead along with them, and I prayed for Pandora to take me. I only got out of bed because I thought some people needed me. I had nothing. When you came into my life, first you were a puzzle I chased. Then you made me hold on. And when I couldn’t hold on any longer, you pulled me up.”

John swallows hard, fighting back tears. Sherlock remembers all of what they’ve been together. John inviting him to be part of his life. Sitting in the flat, reading on the couch warmed by the fire. Sharing breakfasts.

“John. You saved me too. You’re still saving me.”

“So, have you ever been in love?” Sherlock loves how John blushes a bit as he asks this.

“Yes. Once.”

“Good.” John chuckles and bites his lip. He understands. “I want more than friendship. More than sex.” John sits up straight and squeezes Sherlock’s hand. “Please don’t hyperventilate, but I want a life with you.”

“John, I’d like that. I don’t even know if I could leave you if you made me.”

“And the other keys. We’ll find the answers as we go.” John’s fingers cup Sherlock’s face. “Where were we?”

“Here,” Sherlock says, taking John’s hand from his face and placing it on his crotch.

John giggles and gives it a squeeze. “Mm, and what should we do with this?”

“I can think of many things,” Sherlock says, reaching between John’s legs. “But I can think of one in particular I’d love to do with this…” Sherlock wraps his long slender fingers around John’s shaft and strokes it slowly as he sits up and onto his lean haunches. He wants to know what it’s like to feel John inside him, filling him.

Sherlock raises up on to his hands and knees, and folds down onto his elbows. He knows it’s an invitation John can’t ignore. John’s hands trail up the back of Sherlock’s thighs, over what John calls “his plush arse” and gives a gentle squeeze. John sucks in a deep breath, as he eases Sherlock’s cheeks apart. Sherlock moans in anticipation. He’s waiting for John. Waiting. He’s imagined this scene enough.

The cool flick of a tongue touches his tailbone. John hasn’t shaved and his stubble adds to the sensation. It’s a cosmic and indefinable— that shattering instant of contact with his hole. John’s teasing it with the tip of his tongue. It leaves and comes back, stabbing softly until Sherlock becomes a quivering, wanting mass. He can’t believe the noises coming from himself. He can’t quell them or suppress them. Sherlock twists to look over his shoulder as John fucks him with his tongue. He sees Sherlock watching.

“Get on your back. I need to see your face better.”

Sherlock peers under his arm at John as he turns over. John reaches for his night table and pulls out some lube and a condom. Sherlock heart races. Not again.

He closes his eyes and grasps his own cock as he steadies his breathing.

“Now that’s a thing of beauty,” John says. The bed dips as John climbs between Sherlock’s legs. “Is it okay with you if I just stop for a moment to look at you?” Sherlock raises his knees and breathes in through his nose and nods. John. He always seems to know. He’s intentionally slowed himself to calm Sherlock.

And Sherlock wants to look at John too. Inspect him, explore him. Slowly Sherlock opens his eyes to see him. John’s coating his cock with the lube and smiling down at him. He’s ruggedly handsome and fit although Sherlock can tell John’s posing a bit for him like he’s ready for inspection, straightening his spine, sucking in a bit of his gut. Sherlock thought it would be hot if he salutes. But he doesn’t need to do any of it— all golden and creamy with freckles. Just the right ratio of muscle to mass and padding. He doesn’t need to crunch and curl his way to torso glory. He’s perfect.

“Let me know if I’m going too fast or if it hurts.” He removes his hand, then slips it between his legs and slips his thumb to Sherlock’s pucker, then presses inside.

Sherlock makes shapeless sounds. It’s good. So good. Sherlock feels his internal muscles clamp down. He’s trying his best to relax, but can’t. John rubs his tummy with free hand, like he’s soothing him as he adds a two fingers instead of his thumb. It works.

“You’re doing fine. You’re opening like a flower. If you want to grind down on my hand, go right ahead. Keep working your cock. You look so incredible. I love you.”

“I love you, John Watson.”

It’s a strange feeling, the circles John’s making with his fingers inside him— the overwhelming love he feels. He follows John’s suggestion and grinds down. It’s weird the way his stomach feels on fire and mouth goes dry as fingers tease and twist in and out as he pushes himself down. He wants more, and he knows he’s ready like he knew he was ready for John’s first kiss.

“John,” Sherlock moans. “Fuck me. Please, John.”

“You’re a bloody wonder. Of course I will.”

It aches and feels good all at once. He’s only done this a few times in his life. Much was a blur and none ever mattered. Maybe that was part of his panic— that this was finally it. What he’d never had, and never thought he’d ever want until John.

Sherlock can feel everything as John buries himself inside. Sherlock trembles. He feels like he could be on an edge, but knows he’s not. Not yet. He feels as if he’s falling, down, down, down, heat and flames and blood rushing with white-hot heat before his very eyes. John moves inside him, and he’s brilliant. It’s better than any high he’s ever felt, and he’s beyond pleasure. What do you call a place like this? There’s nothing in his mind palace to tell him what this bliss is. Indescribable, undefinable, exquisite.

“That’s it, Sherlock. Come. You’re gorgeous. God, so fucking hot. Yes, yes...”

Sherlock hears John’s name uttered from his own mouth like he’s outside himself. John comes, pulses in his ass, but when his brain realizes what the rest of his body already knows, his orgasm: beautiful, slow, and powerful.

“That was...incredible,” John says, sobbing for breath, his body collapsing into Sherlock’s.

Sherlock thinks it’s fitting they’ve melded together in shared heat like two precious metals. “I finally understand,” Sherlock gasps in bursts. “Why humans. Are obsessed. With sex.”

John smiles broad and clasps Sherlock’s hand that’s just above his head on the pillow. They both fall asleep wound up together.

When Sherlock wakes, he’s first up and able to admire John close with a level mind. He’s on his stomach, arm under his head, face turned toward Sherlock. His back dips into two nice-round arse cheeks with cute dimples. He chokes back a laugh. He never would have imagined two years ago that he would ever admire a man’s dimples on his arse. John’s eyes flutter open at his suppressed laughter.

“Morning, love.”

Sherlock breath catches. John just called him “love,” and he feels giddy— at least he thinks that’s what it’s called when your insides feel like a thousand butterflies. He must be in an alternate reality. He checks his own pulse.

“What’s wrong,” John sits up.

“I just. You called me ‘love’ and my response was unexpected.”

“Is that all. Hmm. I will have to call you that more often so that you don’t have issues. There will be times, however, that I’ll want to get your heart racing.”

“John, there’s some place we need to go.”

“You mum’s?”

Sherlock laughs.  “Yes, but that’s not where I’m referring to.”

“The attic or London?”

“Neither. Although I can’t wait to show you my old place in London, but I’ll save that for the trip to see mummy. And the attic? That is my past. ” He closes his eyes. “The one place we need to go is where I went as a child. I want you there with me. It’s the last important piece on my treasure map. To find my past. The part I don’t remember.”

John crawls back under the cover and lies on his side facing Sherlock and lazily swings a leg over Sherlock’s.

“Aye, matie! Whatever you ask,” John says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our crazy guys finally come together hard and for good in this. There is one final chapter. The epilogue. In it you’ll get final importance of the key, as well as our beloved John and Sherlock.


	22. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it. I anguish over ending stories. It’s difficult to end something you’ve grown to love. I find it hard to let go, like a child you don’t want to grow up and move out of the house. 
> 
> On to the Epilogue:  
> Find BOTH POVs in this: John and Sherlock. 
> 
> The epilogue begins from with John’s POV at Mummy’s for Christmas, then goes to Sherlock's at his Mum's, then at “Skully” Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you one and all.
> 
> Most of all I want thank MrBotanyB, whose collaboration, inspiration, and partnership I treasure as much as Sherlock does his John Watson. No matter where life takes us or how far, I will always be here. Please remember that. 
> 
> Thank you to those who responded on AO3 and Tumblr. We are grateful for the Kudos and comments and applaud all of you in return. Johnlock has some of the best fans of all. I can’t list everyone who commented but these six fans left comments on almost every chapter: jobooksncoffee, itsneverjustheartdisease, 1butterfly_grl1, ylc, hubblegleeflower, and Purrfectlmt.
> 
> Bows and kisses to all who suggested names for Sherlock’s cat! Thanks to all of you for making the choice so difficult, and thanks to chriscalledmesweetie for giving him the perfect name, Blackbeard. 
> 
> A big thank you from the bottom of our hearts to the artist, fuyuunoriyuu, who created a masterpiece of Sherlock (in the purple shirt of hotness), John (all sleepy in bed), and Blackbeard (being cute). 
> 
> I want to thank all those who read the story. If you're shy and didn't comment or give kudos, no worries. We appreciate you too.
> 
> With that, on to the final chapter.

**Epilogue**

John promised Sherlock’s mum he’d bring her son home. Two months later, he does. For Christmas.

As the cab rounds the drive to the front of the Holmes estate, John can’t take his eyes off Sherlock’s face. While Sherlock does his best to suppress his smile, it’s not working. His lips keep curling up at the corners and his silver-green eyes sparkle like the white twinkle lights winding through the evergreen garlands surrounding the entrance to their family home.

The cab stops, and they climb out into the three fresh inches that blanket the ground. The cabbie helps them with the bags from the boot. It’s almost a shame, John thinks, to leave footprints in the pristine snow.

“Ta, I believe that’s it,” John says as he pays the driver. He watches for a moment as the cab drives off.

They both carry their luggage and gifts. Not much to juggle. Since Sherlock convinced himself they’re only staying for the evening, he’d said to pack light. Not that he really had.

“I don’t know how you talked me into this,” Sherlock says.

The estate in front of him may be large, but it’s not stiff or stuffy. Sherlock’s family home looks comfortable and loved. As they climb the steps, John notes how festive it feels— even the winter wind welcomes their faces. He hasn’t felt this kind of holiday spirit since…

He sucks in a breath and looks over at Sherlock again for a bit of confidence. John is not that nervous to see Sherlock’s mum again or to spend long hours on end with Mycroft— it’s just for the last two years John lived in a kind of a Hell during the holidays.

Sherlock knows it, sees it. The man’s a bloody genius.

Sherlock somehow manages to switch his bag of gifts to the same hand he’s holding the luggage in. Then unexpectedly, Sherlock rests his free hand in the middle of John’s back and gently massages reassuring circles between John’s shoulder blades.

All this comfort when John should be the one comforting Sherlock!  Earlier today, the man was a bleeding wreck. John recalled how Sherlock dove frantically through his limited wardrobe, looking for the “proper attire” for Mummy. Underneath the Belstaff, scarf, and black leather gloves, Sherlock wore his final choice: a deep burgundy cashmere jumper with an older pair of Spencer Hart charcoal trousers.

Even if the trousers fit Sherlock a bit less snug than they once did— a fact his Mum is sure not to miss— he looks devastatingly handsome. Standing side-by-side his friend and lover, John can’t believe how lucky he is.

Red velvet bows and an exceedingly large noble fir wreath welcome them as Sherlock stiffens his back and drops his own bag in front of the door, but before Sherlock can knock, it opens wide.

Mycroft greets them with Mummy standing all giddy behind. She races around her eldest son and throws herself into Sherlock’s arms.

“Mummy, I do believe you’re squeezing me to death,” Sherlock says with a gasp.

She pushes him back at arm’s length, her keen-blue eyes taking in her son from snow-covered feet to disheveled hair. “Is that a tear?” she asks.

“Mostly likely caused when your hug ruptured my spleen.”

John laughs. If that’s the excuse he needs to use! His Mum laughs as well, but makes more of a fuss, wiping tears away with her thumb, then kissing both cheeks.

Even Mycroft gets a bit choked up. Mummy certainly is.

John’s not sure what he expected but not this. The home looks as if a blizzard of yuletide blasted through each room. Holly and evergreen with twinkling lights, glass snowflakes and shining bulbs in reds and greens. It’s reached the tipping point of almost too much holiday.

“I’ll have Simon take your bags to your room,” she says, and turns to John, hugging him with almost the same enthusiasm. “Thank you for bringing my sons home to me.”

 _Bloody Hell_.  Now he’s crying too.

Later that evening after way too much roast beef, Yorkshire pudding, and brussel sprouts, they move to the living room to relax and talk— or the Holmes’ version of it.

Mycroft and Sherlock take shots at each over sips of brandy as John takes swigs from his own snifter and admires the twelve foot Nordic spruce. It’s adorned with rainbow twinkle lights and old handmade ornaments from Mycroft and Sherlock’s childhood with a few that John suspects are Eurus’.

“It’s intolerable,” he hears Sherlock say. “I simply can’t wear this! I’d rather wear those silly cracker hats.”

“That’s tomorrow. On Christmas. Keep the antlers on! I do like you both as reindeer!” his mum says.

“Make Mycroft wear his then,” Sherlock pouts.

“Mycroft? Put on your antlers! Look at John. You boys should have his attitude!”

“He has a Santa hat,” Mycroft grumbles. “I would gladly trade him.”

“Mycroft, do shut up!” Sherlock turns and squints at Mycroft. “And it’s an elf hat. At least yours doesn’t light up!”

Both are being prats, John thinks as he adjusts his hat. The bell jingle-jangling at the end his is a tad annoying.

“You boys!” she says as if she knows what John is thinking.

She’s thoroughly enjoying herself with her sons if that crooked smile she’s wearing is any indication. John imagines many Christmases where she played referee betwixt the two.

“Sherlock, be kind to your brother,” she says. “Nothing has changed. You still constantly bicker. And if you two think that I haven’t noticed you are both sneaking out to smoke behind my back, you are sorely mistaken!”

John huffs back a laugh. Finally someone who can dress down the Holmes brothers. _Brilliant!_

John steps cautiously next to Mummy. “You promised last visit that you’d tell me a few more stories behind some of your lovely family photos.”  

Mycroft cringes. _Perfect,_ John thinks.

“Why, of course!” she says with a flourish and takes John’s arm. Sherlock steps to John’s other side to mediate.

“This is sweet,” John says, pointing to one of the gilded framed photos among many on the fireplace mantel.

“John, you’re brilliant! I do like that one,” Sherlock adds with a smirk in his voice. It’s a photo of Mycroft in a fuzzy pink footie pajamas surrounded with crumpled up wrapping paper and a host of colorful ribbons and bows.

“Nothing to be shy about,” John says, lifting his snifter to Mycroft. “As a child, my own mum dressed me in embarrassing outfits too. One even included bunny ears.”

“His fifth birthday,” Mummy says. “Little Myc so loved his ‘fuzzy-wuzzies,’ as he called them. He wore them even after his big toes poked out of the seams. He insisted that Dad cut off the feet so could keep wearing them. Before he gave them up, the sleeves were up to Myc’s elbow and feet to his knees. Even then, he kept them under his pillow until he was twelve.”

“Mummy!” Mycroft raises his voice, then downs the rest of his brandy.

John laughs through all of it, then his eye catches a photo at the other end of the mantel. It’s of four youngsters brandishing toy swords on a beach in pirate hats and eye patches. John doesn’t remember that picture from the last time he was here. It must be one she’s brought out of safekeeping, one of the photos of Eurus that she’d told John she’d packed away.

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, then he reaches out and touches the frame. “That’s Mycroft, I, and Euros with Helena.”

“Our summer vacations! You so loved them!” Mum says with a sad smile.

John looks closer. _It is Sophy_. So her real name was Helena afterall. “Where was it taken?” John asks.

“Skully Island,” Sherlock says.

His mum laughs. “Oh, Sherlock, you do remember Sully Island!”

Sherlock seems confused. “Sully?”

“You always called it Skully. The name went so well with your swashbuckling stories we never had the heart to correct you!”

“We’re planning to visit there sometime this summer,” John adds.

Mycroft gives John a concern frown. “The treasure chest?” he asks Sherlock, who nods back.

 _Another secret between brothers?_ John thinks. He’ll have to pry it out of Sherlock before they leave for home.

“I remember.” Sherlock looks wistfully at the image before him. “How we’d play together, running on the shore or in the fields at our old home. The home that...”

Tears prick on Sherlock’s eyes as he speaks, and she reaches out and takes his hand in hers.

“I remember her,” he says in a hushed voice, “but nothing of that night. What happened in that fire or what happened to her after.”

Her hand seems so small and insignificant in Sherlock’s, yet the gentle strokes from her thumb have the power to still her son’s troubled mind.

“Redbeard,” he says, “I…”

“I’ve found over the course of my life that sometimes it’s best to never remember.”

John watches as Sherlock searches his mum’s eyes. John wonders if Sherlock finds what he needs.

“Have I told you about Blackbeard?” Sherlock asks.

—————————-

“I think I may have had one snifter of brandy too many,” John says. “Your boyhood bedroom! And this is your bed. I slept in in before, you know. Even had a wank in it."

“Really, John?”

“Really. This could prove eventful.” John falls back on the bed with a giggle. He crooks his finger, motioning Sherlock to him.

Sherlock gives a wicked smile as unbuttons his shirt and steps nearer.

“First take off those ridiculous antlers,” John smirks.

Sherlock swipes them off along with his trousers. John begins undressing as well.

"I do think you have something to tell me, too. But that can wait."

"I will," Sherlock says, stepping next to the bed. "I learned not to keep things from you." 

“Good. That's good. And as much as this is the season for giving, I must say that I like to be on the receiving end,” John says.

“Mm,” Sherlock says, straddling him. “I do have something else for you,” Sherlock says. “But I plan to take my time to give it to you. I'll begin by kissing all your sensitive, hidden spots. I’m going to make you gasp and plead.” He nips John’s neck and licks his ear. John groans in approval.

Sherlock shifts his weight, side to side, sliding down John’s torso humming and licking and making John beg for more. He flicks John’s thick cock through his pants with the tip of his tongue, then pulls them down. His tongue traces the tip, then he buries John’s cock down the back of his throat. He pulls off with a pop.

“How do you want it? Naughty or nice?” Sherlock asks.

“God! You are going to kill me.”

“Naughty it is then!”

He buries John’s thick cock down his throat again. As John strains to see those perfect lips wrapped around his cock, John thinks Sherlock really is out to kill him. He bobs his head, swirls his tongue. Fiction builds. He’s about to shoot off when Sherlock pulls back.

He feels as if he’s a commoner all tangled in heap of limbs under Sherlock. Even with sweat on Sherlock’s brow and flushed cheeks, the man is majestic.

As Sherlock sits back on his haunches looking down at him, John does beg. They’re both naked and hard and needy. Then the wanker thrusts his knees under John’s thighs and pushes John’s hips up off the mattress, making John groan in anticipation. Sherlock’s eyes alight as he smiles down and lowers himself skin-to-skin, aligning them. John curls his legs up as Sherlock grinds cock against cock.

Sherlock continues to take his time. First frotting, then preparing John with long, wet fingers, until finally, finally, he pushes inside.

John loves being breached by Sherlock, who makes love with the grace and passion of a dancer. At each hint of building orgasm, Sherlock reads John and slows.

John gathers himself. John loves the wait, but he needs release.

“What do you want the most? For Christmas?” Sherlock gasps, leaning closer to John’s ear. “Name it. Anything.”

For a moment John can’t say a word. Every atom in his body knows what it wants and how much he wants it, but it’s trapped inside. John arches up, greedy and needy.

“Say it,” Sherlock says.

It’s corny. That silly song. But. “You. All I want is...you,” John whispers shakily against Sherlock’s ear. “Make me come.”

The intensity builds, the bed springs squeak, the burning and warmth well up inside. He needs this. John needs him.

“John, yes,” Sherlock answers and rocks into him.

John explodes, his world turns to white lights. And Sherlock joins him.  

After as John looks up at the man he loves more than life, he can’t help thinking this is the best Christmas gift he’s ever had.

——————————-

 _That went much better than expected_ , Sherlock thinks. _Christmas wasn’t so bad._

There were even some surprises: Summers visiting “Skully” Island were really Sully Island. Pictures of Eurus and Helena on the beach. Memories of Redbeard at his feet. Scenes of Christmases long ago.

He’s actually sad to leave. They discussed staying another day, but instead, they promised Mummy they’d be back for New Years. He’d learned much more about himself here. More than he’d expected.

About _Treasure Island, too._  He picks up the hollowed book and opens it— the skeleton key still inside. He packs it away with his trousers.

_He told John it all. All that he recalls._

He stands in his old room before they depart and straightens his collar in his old dresser mirror. He’s changed since the last time he saw himself in its reflection. Over five years ago, he came to this room an unhappy man. Ten before that a confused young man on holiday from uni. As a boy, he stood in front of it in his pirate hat. But never Eurie, not this dresser.

Sherlock tries to remember, but it burned with his old dresser in the house.

He remembers after Eurie, their vacations too, but his first real memory after his sister left was of he and Mycroft on the beach.

He sees it all so clear: His big brother sitting across from him on hands and knees in the sand.

“It hurts too much, Myc, take it away!” Sherlock’s younger version pleads. He recalls how white and spindly his legs were gathered beneath him, how the small treasure chest sat open between Myc and himself on rocks and sand of the beach.

“We’ll keep all those memories locked away inside this chest then,” Myc tells young Sherlock. “If you ever need them back, you can find them buried here in the sand. I’ll put the key in a place where you can easily find it. And the map, I’ll put that in the first place you always look.”

The older version of Sherlock wipes away a tear. As he sees his reflection in the mirror, he understands. “The first place I always look,” he repeats Mycroft’s words from long ago. _Behind the mirror._

Sherlock pulls the dresser from the wall and taped behind the mirror is a folded piece of paper from a sketch pad.

Before they leave, Mycroft pulls Sherlock aside. At first Sherlock thinks a new game is afoot, then he sees the question is his brother’s eyes.

“Did you find it?” Mycroft asks.

“I did.” Sherlock slips the map from his pocket and shows his big brother.

Later in the cab, Sherlock opens it. He shows John, who smiles. It’s yellowed and torn at the corner, but in Mycroft’s young hand, it’s clearly labeled _Skully Island_. It looks like an old treasure map. 

He’s glad he told John last night about the treasure. About his memories.

“X marks the spot, I suspect,” John comments.

“That is does.”

Sherlock does remember how much he loved his sister. And that she loved him. He knows she did. She was confused and confined. She never had a mind palace. Maybe if she’d had a place to store all her thoughts she wouldn’t have burned it all down.

_____________________________

As they walk among the dark sand, pebbles and slippery seaweed covered rocks on the low tide land bridge across the Bristol Channel to the title island, Sherlock recalls this same walk as a child. The adventure!

Once on Sully Island, you have to either return quickly within three hours or wait six hours for the causeway to appear like magic. And it was a magical twelve hour cycle for him as a boy. Also dangerous. The tide comes in so fast! He recalls racing one day on the slippery rocks before the sea almost took him.

Sully doesn’t have the clean, clear sands of Whitesands Bay, but Sherlock prefers this. Along the dark stoned beach, are sandy coves where he’d play as a child. He’d bring his copy of _Treasure Island_  and look for buried treasure with Redbeard.

“A pirate did live here once,” Sherlock says.

“A pirate? You mean, besides yourself?” John chuckles, the corner of his mouth turning up.

“He was a 13th Century Norman pirate referred to by the locals as The Night Hawk. His real name was Alfredo De Marisco. His lookout post was on the hill on other side of the island.”

Sherlock loved every moment on this island. He expects he’ll love this trip the same. Sherlock doesn’t mind being marooned on the island for ten or twelve hours.

An island with no food, water, or any amenities. On rainy days, his parents would tough it out under an umbrella with a brimming picnic hamper. Today the sky is bright blue with only a wisp of clouds, and although a bit different from what his Mummy always packed, their basket was filled with more than enough to eat and drink.

While Sherlock admits to himself that he was more than a bit anxious about their trip to _Skully_ , now he’s just excited to show John his beloved childhood memories. John’s looks handsome and rugged wearing khakis and an old, grey Nirvana t-shirt. Sherlock feels just as comfortable dressed in worn jeans and his usual blue scrub shirt. He remembers a time when he only wore designer clothes. Life changes.

“So no one has lived here in a long time,” John observes.

“No one is allowed to live here. We always walked across from where we stayed in the village of Swanbridge. Not the same place we’re staying. The couple who rented the cottage to our family sold it and retired over ten years ago.”

“That’s too bad, but the place we’re staying is nice.”

“It’s adequate,” Sherlock says as they continue down the causeway. “If lucky, you can find artifacts on the beach. The tricky tides and narrow access has caused many shipwrecks over the centuries.”

“You’ll be happy to know I did a bit of research myself,” John says, and brushes against Sherlock. It feels nice. Comfortable. “I read that the island was sold some years back to a private owner. Some mysterious sailing enthusiast who wanted to preserve the island.”

Sherlock smiles and picks up a slick stone and throws into the bay.

“That 'private owner' wouldn’t have been Mycroft?” John asks pointedly.

Sherlock doesn’t answer directly. “The owner wished to remain anonymous and wanted to make certain the island would remain open to the public and preserved as it is for future generations. No buildings allowed. Ever.”

He can hardly believe he’s here after all these years. He’s happy to share it with John. Over the last months, numerous cases Lestrade has shared with them have been eventful. John has continued with his blog and although Sherlock likes teasing John about his case entries, he dearly loves John’s romantic sentiments. He’s certain this adventure, or at least some part of it, will find its way into his blog.

As soon as they reach the island, Sherlock takes John to one of his favorite spots as a child: the foreshore where the visible ribs of a ship stand out of the sand, sadly not those of a Viking ship, but a Victorian wreck.

Although John watches Sherlock carefully, Sherlock hasn’t had one episode since that day at the yards where they last saw Sophy. His headaches have tapered off, and he hasn’t had one in weeks, which is one of the reasons John gave the go ahead for this visit. John wanted to make certain there were no setbacks or emergencies since they might not be able to leave the island if there was one.

Hand in hand they trek through the coarse grasses and wander around the island. There’s families here and couples visiting, seeing the island’s curiosities. Not much to really see on the island but rocks and bushes about and maybe a few rabbits. The trees that were once on the island long taken down. The sandy and loamy soil of the island doesn’t afford much to grow, but Sherlock points to John some adder’s tongue fern along with bee orchid and spleenwort. Not much else.

The view of the bay and channel, however, is spectacular.

“We’re going to the hill on the east end of the island,” Sherlock says. “That’s where you can see the archaeological evidence of a Saxon fort. We can picnic there if you’d like— right where the Vikings probably ate!” Unspoken is that’s not far from where the treasure chest is buried.

“The hill at the end of the island is reputed to have been a Viking lookout post,” Sherlock says and leads the way.

It’s a perfect day. They’re on the far side of the island, sun warming their faces, where they rediscover the traces of the old walls on top of a forty-foot cliffs jumbled in richly colored reddish-brown rocks.

“This is beautiful spot for lunch,” John agrees. The wind whips John’s sandy hair, and Sherlock thinks the colors echo the cliffs beneath them.

They open the red and black wool blanket John brought, and John pulls out the the small feast he’s planned. Croissants and ham with cheeses. Apples and grapes along with some wine. Although Sherlock’s mind is more on what’s to come, he bends over and kisses John on his wine-stained lips. He admires how the sun brings out the red in John’s lashes and the splash of freckles on his face. It’s enough to make Sherlock want a bit of privacy.

It’s the point of no return. They either go back now and make it to the other side of the causeway, or they stay until the next low tide.

It’s unspoken that they’re staying. They eat, licking fingers with soft smiles and more red wine kisses with anticipation for what’s to come. They pack up quietly.

As they climb down through the rocks to the beach below, it’s slow going, but Sherlock quickly remembers the path he took as a boy.

It’s not so hard to find the place, but he pulls out Mycroft’s map from his pocket to be sure. Mycroft has drawn the shape of the island meticulously with its landmarks clearly detailed in the flourish and colour of a child’s mind, skull and crossbones included. Sherlock may know his way, but the map grounds him; it’s a reassuring part of a childhood ritual, much like the treasure maps Sherlock drew as a child.

John points easily to spot on the map where they are as they stand looking across Bristol Channel. Each of Mycroft’s dotted lines signify the number of steps leading to the big red “X” where the treasure chest is buried. He hands over the map to John who recounts the steps.

Sherlock really doesn’t need young Mycroft’s map to locate the key landmark where they must start, a large red sandstone shaped in his child’s mind like a dog.

“It’s old Redbeard pointing the way,” Sherlocks says to John.

“That it is!”

Sherlock stands flush against the rock face and takes the twenty-two, twelve-year-old Mycroft-sized steps, turns south, then proceeds another twenty-two paces, west seven more where he drops down and digs.

John drops down next to him. “It says on the map that it’s about a foot under,” John says. 

Sherlock knows he could be off with his paces by a foot or possibly two but within minutes of digging...

“Sherlock, there’s something here.”

Four hands uncover the top of the chest. Sherlock feels John’s eyes on him—  his doctor is checking, assessing, re-assessing while Sherlock does the same. Despite the gnawing pangs inside his gut, he feels remarkably calm. His mind alert. No sign of a headache.

“He wasn’t always rubbish at being a big brother,” Sherlock says as they both look down.

“He still isn’t rubbish at it, it seems.”

Sherlock’s long fingers dig around the chest, then pull the chest out of the sand and set it between them. The wood has blackened, iron bands rusted, the small padlock hangs with sand in its keyhole.

Sherlock reaches into his pocket for his skeleton key. As he brushes off the top of the chest and blows into the keyhole to clear it, it reminds him of another place, another time, but instead of his brother across from him on his knees, it’s John.

He looks at John, who eyes him back expectantly.

“Mycroft said we’d lock my memories inside. It worked. But maybe in the process, I pushed too many inside.”

“You retrieved most of them without opening it.” John sighs, then sits up straight. John loves him. Accepts him.

“I loved her.” Sherlock turns the key in his fingers as they both look at the chest between them. “I remember how she followed me and laughed and played and...I still do love her. I don’t care what she did. Even after all that they told me, all that I don’t remember, I love her.”

“You’ve been thinking about what your Mum said.” That’s his John speaking, always helping him, keeping him right, showing him what it is to feel. “That for sometimes, for somethings, it’s best never to remember.”

“That’s it, isn’t it? What if I open this chest, and I still can’t remember? What if I do and I...”

“Whatever you decide, I’m right with it,” John nods. “We still have five hours left here. We can take the chest with us. Walk a bit more. You can show me the west side of the island. It’s quiet now with everyone gone. Then if you decide, you can open it later. It doesn’t have to be now or ever, if that’s your choice. And if you don’t remember, that’s fine too.”

Sherlock gazes at the amazing man he loves. 

“I know a quiet place, a private place with a spectacular view,” Sherlock smiles.

Sherlock places both of his hands on the chest and picks it up. He sets it back where they found, pushing the sand back over the top of the chest.

“It should stay here. On the island.” Sherlock smooths out the sand then pats the top. “Maybe some pirate will dig it up someday. Or...”

“We can come back,” John says. “We can always come back.”

John stands and brushes the sand off his trousers. This time it’s John’s hand that reaches out; it’s John’s hand that pulls Sherlock up.

“Hmm. Four hours left before low tide. Private, you say?”

“Very private,” Sherlock says.

John squeezes Sherlock's hand. “Show me that place.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you. We'd love to know what you think of the ending and story. 
> 
> As most of you know who see my updates on Tumblr, the line "sometimes it's better never to remember" was on all of the promo work for this, and I fully intended to use it in the story. That Mummy says it, should not be a surprise. What is surprising is the choice Sherlock makes in the epilogue. To leave something un-investigated, even if it's his childhood memories buried in a treasure chest, is not something that's at all characteristic of Sherlock Holmes. Except that it is. There are instances in ACD's work where Sherlock decides to leave well enough alone. In our story, this is Sherlock's "Norbury." It's his Mum who tells Sherlock, remembering isn't always for the best. I'm not sure all my readers will agree with Sherlock's choice, but that's the way I thought best to end it.

**Author's Note:**

> We love comments and kudos. We can’t say enough how important knowing you enjoy or liked our work. Please leave us a comment (food for our souls) and tell us and/or press the Kudos for this work and other works you enjoy here on AO3. We love you for it!
> 
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